


To Divide, For What Unites Us

by hallowgirl



Category: Lolitics, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: (implied too), (implied) - Freeform, (kinda), (mentioned) - Freeform, (mentions) - Freeform, Affectionate Insults, Almost Kiss, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bittersweet Ending, Camerband, Cannot Spit It Out, Character Development, Cross-Party Romance, Crying, Ed's A Geek, Foe Yay, Holding Hands, If It's You It's OK, M/M, Marital Problems, Opposites Attract, Rival Romance, Self-Hatred, Syria Vote, War, agree to disagree, everyone can see it, let's face it, lisping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5579827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallowgirl/pseuds/hallowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's two years between them, and two different votes, and two different leaders and two different outcomes; but then through all of it, they are the same.<br/>(But they're not quite the same.)<br/>(And two years can change more than a vote.)</p>
<p>Set over the course of the two Syria votes in 2013 and 2015, and their very different outcomes. Camerband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Divide, For What Unites Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> So, this was inspired by both the disparity between the two Syria votes-in 2013 and 2015-and their obviously very different results, but is also a gift for the amazing Hercules_Grytpype_Thynne, who mentioned a love for policy-based Camerband.  
> And also by the truly epic falling-out David Cameron and Ed Miliband had after that 2013 vote which sounds a little too much like a lover's tiff for me not to write this.

_"The Ayes to the right, 272. The Nos to the left, 285."_

_"The Ayes to the right, 272. The Nos to the left, 285. So the Nos have it, the Nos have it."_

_********_

He feels the knowledge strike between his shoulders, sink into him like a stone. It's a jab of shock, of something harsh, like disappointment, like embarrassment but it's  something else too; a horror.

They won't stop it. They won't help. They won't be a part of protecting people.

And more will die. Always, more will die.

And on the heels of that horror, something that carves into his stomach, forces his head up to stare across the chamber. Something that feels raw and furious, gashing open inside him.

There's cheering going on from the other side of the chamber but that rings dimly in his ears. Instead, David stares across the chamber and watches _him._

_He_ isn't cheering. His head turns towards Bercow's chair, as if asking if this could possibly be right. His gaze hovers, then wavers back to David. From a distance, it would look as if he was expressionless. But David sees his eyes widen and whatever's there, it isn't triumph.

The anger flares hot at first, then cold, deepening until it feels like it's weighing him down, something that's so strong it would scare him. It would scare him but somehow it doesn't.

David's never hated him. He's disliked him, pitied him, dismissed him. And then he's respected him. Admired him. Liked him. Sometimes all at once. Liked in a strange, snatched way in between barbed lines and politics that can't seem to fit together, no matter how hard they try.

(And he does try.)

Liked in a way that he doesn't quite understand because it's so entangled with politics and arguing and discussions that sometimes leave David's teeth grinding with frustration, the two of them staring at each other with what might be exactly the same expression on their faces.

David's never hated him. He might have wished he hated him.

But now, he stares at him across the chamber, their gazes locking, and thinks the words, as if he's spitting them at him.

_You traitor._

They aren't strong enough. They aren't enough.

(But nothing's enough, for them, really.)

Instead, he just looks at him and thinks _You did this_. And the way he's just staring back makes David even colder, because he doesn't even look triumphant.

In that moment, though he'll tell himself otherwise later on, a thousand times, David doesn't know if he hates him. He thinks this might be the nearest thing they can have to hate.

                                                                                                                             ***********

 

He doesn't feel like he's won it.

They've won it. The side he's voted for have won. There won't be more deaths. He won't see blood on his own hands when he stares into the mirror every night. There won't be another Iraq.

There are no cheers in his throat. He can hear them bouncing out of the mouths of all those who voted with him, some of them who remember the days of Iraq casualties and the anger that swept through the Commons like a tide, some of them who hate weapons with a passion that almost frightens him, some of them who just didn't think it was the right time.

And him. Who's going to get the headlines. The positive, the negative, the screaming print for him.

(For both of them, really.)

They've won and all he can do is stare because it's the one thing he never expected.

He glances at Bercow, trying to see if it's a joke, if it's a mistake, but it isn't. It isn't and then Ed looks at _him_ , because he's always looking at him.

And he looks back.

(There won't be another Iraq and _he_ won't be the next Blair.)

Ed stares at him and he stares back. There's a tension in his jaw and Ed doesn't feel triumphant. He stares, wondering if _he_ can see that, if he knows that Ed couldn't feel further from triumph-even though he's won.

Ed's won. And now he's watching him, waiting for him to look up.

_(He_ won't be the next Blair and Ed tells himself that will be the best thing for him in the long run.)

But the other man's just watching Ed, and their eyes meet. Ed feels the shock of it, and it hits him at once, the look. It'd be easier if he'd shouted at Ed, if he'd thrown something at him.

(It would be a lot easier if Ed could just feel triumphant.)

(But then somehow, he's never fully triumphant when he wins, not against _him_ , which doesn't make sense.)

Neither of them looks away and what Ed sees there is like a punch. It's different from the sharp, spiked anger that's there in debates and arguments and the back-and-forths that he should despise.

It's darker and colder and he can feel himself almost flinch. He doesn't quite, but he wants to.

Usually, it's smiling because Ed wants to smile around him too often, even when he shouldn't, smiles in between the fuming and wondering and questioning how, just _how,_ someone can think everything that _he_ thinks, that exasperates Ed and that somehow, he can never stop thinking about.

Now, Ed can see the way he's looking at him. And he knows that it's this that from now on, he'll see, lodged firmly in his mind, that he can never stop thinking about.

 

_****************_

 

_"The Ayes to the right, 397. The Nos to the left, 233."_

_"The Ayes to the right, 397. The Nos to the left, 233. So the Ayes have it, the Ayes have it."_

 

_*****************_

 

They've seen sense. That's the first thing he thinks, sitting there. They've seen sense and then there's the triumph, soaking in, the rush of success, the jolt of affirmation that yes, he is right. He is right.

It would have been stronger two years ago but now David's jolted into a sense of certainty. He's surer now and they've seen. They've listened to him and they've backed him. And they can finally help. They can do something.

They'll do something and David can't stop himself beaming, as he feels the congratulations soak in from around him, even from some opposite, who are laughing now at one of Bercow's lines. They're laughing and they voted for him. Some of them-a large some of them-voted for him and not their leader, their leader who's letting the party slip through his fingers day after day.

He lets his eyes meet Corbyn's for a moment, Corbyn who stares back at him impassively, the way he always does at Prime Minister's Questions, when they're meant to be arguing. Some people think David finds it intimidating, but it's different from that-there's almost a boredom to it, an apathy that seeps in that he fights against but that Corbyn seems to be happy to let drown his entire party. But Corbyn's just lost. He's lost to his own MPs. Lost, and David feels a stab of triumph but it's Corbyn's eyes that he only lingers on for a moment. He lets his gaze drift away, a weight of unsaid apologies that no doubt Corbyn will remind him of over and over again next time they meet hovering there, and then David's gaze drifts up, past Bercow, past the Labour benches to the seat at the side where he'd spotted him earlier on.

He's sitting there, and David still can't quite get used to it, to not seeing him straight across the chamber. He's watching the proceedings quietly, one hand brushing his own cheek as he looks, and his eyes meet David's almost immediately. They'd been hovering near anyway and David looks back. That coldness from two years ago is still there sometimes-but like a ghost, a whisper. There've been other things since. Other things that are spikier and angrier and easier, easier for them both.

Nothing like that, again.

But it still whispers sometimes.

But now, he's looking back at David and they watch each other. David doesn't feel triumphant. Or rather he does, but it's more of a _sense_ of triumph now-a feeling of _yes._ They _are_ doing the right thing. They _are_ protecting people. They _are_ getting it right.

But David just watches him and knows, knows that this isn't what _he_ wanted and that now, he's watching the plan he never wanted unfold.

A part of David would want to feel triumph but he can't and that's just typical.

So, he just looks back, and too far away in that seat, the other man watches David like he knows. Like he knows all the success and triumph and confusion. Like he's taking it in.

(And David doesn't know if it bothers him or not.)

                                                                                                                          ******************

 

He already knew it would happen but he still feels that sink of resignation, of the fact that this time, they couldn't stop it.

Of course, then it jabs that it's not _they_ anymore either. The days of Labour being a _they_ , a _them_ , are long gone. They're now a _them_ and a _them_ and a _them_. Different groups, chafing against each other. Different votes, crashing into each other and adding up and sending their planes off into the sky into another war.

Ed knew it would happen but he still voted against, holding onto some old-fashioned value of making a point, of expressing his view even though he already knew that they were going to vote for it, that it was going ahead and they were going to be swept along in it.

Now, they're laughing, at Bercow, who's sitting there making jokes, as if to lift the atmosphere that's hung over the chamber the whole day, the atmosphere of already knowing the outcome, of the furious disagreement brewing underneath everything, carving itself not between two parties but between one party, ugly and jagged and breaking.

They're laughing, some of them near him, some of them who voted for, some who voted against, but Ed's looking for him, for him, down at the despatch box, sitting there, smiling a little, sitting a little straighter because he's won. He's won and it must be something he's wanted for a while.

Ed watches him. Ed knows that he didn't want to win. Or rather, he didn't want to have to win. Ed can't explain how but that's just the way they know each other, because that's what five years of arguing can do, five years of tearing each other apart and in some way, wanting to build each other up again.

He didn't want to win. He thought that he needed to win and that's the difference. Ed knew it two years ago and he knows it now.

So he watches him quietly, in amongst the cheers and the laughter and the pained, resigned silence of some who voted against, until the other man raises his eyes to meet Ed's.

They stare at each other, him watching Ed back and Ed can feel him taking it in. Ed just watches him, and he can see that he's got what he wants, or what he thinks he needs, and Ed can see that a part of that scares him and a part of it is all he's wanted for a while because he wants to be doing the right thing.

He does, in spite of what other people say. What Ed himself has said.

In that way, they're alike.

They stare at each other and Ed can see it again, that conviction that he's doing what's right. Everyone said that was Ed, and it's ironic, because it's _him_ too. Ed's always known it. Maybe that's why they've always argued so much, in a way that sometimes makes them laugh, and sometimes made Ed feel he could cry with frustration.

Ed stares at him and in amongst the disappointment, he doesn't know if he wants to congratulate or talk or something else.

(He doesn't think about something else.)

 

                                                                                                                              ********************

 

"We need your support." David can't believe he's standing here, clutching the back of a chair, phone digging into his ear. "We want to go into this with your support."

The man on the other end draws in his breath and David marvels because he knew they were different, but how can he not _see_ , how can he not see what seems so obvious to David, to Nick, to everyone he's spoken to-a few rebels could be sorted out, could be dealt with but they need support. They need support to help these people.

"I won't be able to offer it" _he_ says quietly and David feels something shift suddenly-something he can't quite identify shifting into something that's both a sharp shock and on the heels of that, anger, an anger that's colder, makes his fingers clench tightly around the back of a chair.

"Won't be able to-"

"Offer it. I'm sorry. Labour won't be supporting this."

He's already said it but David shakes his head a little because this can't be it. Nothing, no more discussion. Because if this is it, they've lost. They've lost and they won't be joining the Americans. They won't be helping. They won't be doing anything. He'll have to phone Barack and tell them that's Britain's position. Not doing anything. Not contributing. Not helping.

"You're letting us down." He doesn't realise it's his voice until he sees his knuckles, white on the back of the chair. "You're-" The anger is cold and sharp in his throat. "You're failing us." He spits the words out.

There's a longer silence and then "I don't accept that. I think we're going too fast. You're the one who wants to leap into this, head over heels-"

David laughs. It's one of the worst things he's ever heard coming out of his own mouth. "Well then, accept something else. You're failing them."

At the silence that follows, he grips the phone tighter. "You're failing all the people you claim to represent. Assad's a threat to everyone-"

"War's a greater threat." The voice on the other end is sharper, and he can picture the other man's eyes narrowing now. "You want to go into this, eyes blind-I'm trying to _protect_ people-"

_"So am I."_

"I _know."_ It sounds as if he's struggling to keep his voice level and a part of David is ridiculously, childishly glad. "I know that's your intention. But-I think you're going about this the wrong way."

"So, essentially, we have to let more innocent people die because of your concerns about finding a better way?"

"Shouldn't that be a Prime Ministerial concern?" The voice is sharper now, and David feels something hot and angry and hurtfully familiar leap in his chest because he _knows_ this with him. David knows this, knows that he's one of the few people who can do this to _him_ , can make his voice rise, no matter how hard he tries to sound calm and reasonable and above it all when he peppers David with questions every Wednesday. And David knows he's one of the few who can make him laugh, that high, unguarded laugh that David relishes pulling out whenever he can.

(And David doesn't think about why he holds onto that, too.)

"It is one of my concerns." David's voice is lower now, and he can feel himself gripping the phone so hard it hurts. "It _is_ one of my concerns and that is why we think this is the best strategy."

_His_ voice is lower too, now. "I don't."

David shakes his head because they might disagree-they might disagree on almost everything-but this is one area- _one_ area -where he thought he'd have his support.

"My party can't support this." The other man's voice is low and then he says "I know this isn't what you hoped for, Prime Minister-"

"No, it isn't what I bloody hoped for." David's conscious of the eyes on his back, of the way his heart's pounding. He's too aware of the sudden tightness in his throat, the horror sinking into his stomach because he won't back it. He won't back it, and he'll have to tell Barack they're not going to help and they'll have to leave them. They can do nothing.

"Do you care?" he almost barks out and his voice is raw and angry in his throat. "Do you care that you're letting those people down?"

"Prime Minister-"

"You're letting America down." David is pacing now, the phone pressed into his ear. "You're letting America down and you're letting our citizens down." The other words are clawing underneath, the words that are alive in his chest, breaking his ribs and scratching his throat.

"That's not how I see it." David can hear the crack of determination through his tone, can picture the stubborn set of the jaw, and that's when his words crack too.

"If you don't support us, you might as well side with Russia." The words taste bitter in his mouth. "You might as well side with fucking Lovrov-"

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are?" The words are snapped out at the other end and it's a stab of bitter triumph in David's chest. "I'm trying to do my _job-"_

"And I'm trying to do mine!" He's shouting now, and he wishes the other man was in front of him, wishes he was bloody _standing_ here so David could see his face, make him watch, make him see the damage he's causing, with his stupid, moralistic stance that's just going to _condemn_ people-"I'm trying to protect innocent people and you're-" The words burst out. "You're playing with their lives to make some cheap political _point_ -some _point_ for your own bloody reputation-"

Something thuds on the other end of the phone and David feels a thrill at the sound, the thought that something's broken through that _mask_ of fucking-fucking ignorant _piousness-_

"Don't you _dare-"_ And David can hear the other man's voice cracking too now, can picture that look on his face and something about the fact he's actually managed to _do_ this, to get to _him_ enough that he's _snarling_ down the phone is hard and hurting in David's chest and it makes him bitterly happy. "How dare you think that I'd put people's-people's fucking _lives_ at risk to bloody-"

"Well, trust me, that's what I think."

There's another long pause and then "That's honestly what you think of me."

David opens his mouth but can't answer.

"That's the person you think I-" His voice breaks off. David doesn't know why he's shaking, why he's gripping the phone tighter.

"If you won't back it-" he says and each word is bitten out, low and fierce. "If you won't support us, fine. That's your decision."

He can't leave it like that, because he-because he thought this would be a time. A time they'd agree. A time they'd both want the same thing.

But they don't or they do but they want it so differently that David doesn't have any idea how they can find their way through to a solution.

It feels as though the words are fighting to climb out of his mouth so he spits them out, the tightness in his chest making it painful to breathe. "But you can live with what happens. You're already good at that."

He can almost see the other man's flinch at that and then he says it, the words bitter with the feelings sharpened like knives duelling in his chest. "And in answer to your question. Yes." He spits it out as a whisper. "That's the person I think you are."

There's a long silence at the other end of the phone. David closes his eyes, digs his teeth into his lip. He doesn't know why he's shaking, why his jaw is clenched so tightly it hurts. He doesn't know why he feels as if his chest is full of things that are sharp and stretched and tight and they're all snapping, one by one.

"In that case-" The voice is lower than usual, and David closes his eyes at the sound. "We have nothing further to say to each other, Prime Minister."

David doesn't want to be the one left hanging there so it's him who ends the call and then he stands there, gripping the phone so tightly it will leave an indentation in his skin. He can feel the others' eyes on him but he doesn't turn yet. Instead, he leans his head against the wall, and tries to pretend it doesn't feel as though something's fighting to break through his ribs.

 

                                                   *******************

 

"We need your support." Ed closes his eyes at the other man's voice, forces himself to take a deep breath, to keep his own words level when he tells him what he's not going to offer. "We want to go into this with your support."

He's tried to give it. Ed knows the other man will never believe him but he's tried to give it. He's stared at the arguments for hours, scribbling them into lists, bullet points, 

talking them over and over with Douglas as though they might look viable this time, searching for anything that might make them a little different, anything that might make him change his mind, tip him over into agreement.

But all he can see is Iraq and Blair and all of them, the children sobbing on the news, the children whose homes had been destroyed. All he can see is _them_ when he closes his eyes and that's when he knows he can't give his support. He can't, because it's him who'll have to live with what they'll do, the same way his brother has had to and his friends have had to.

The same way _he_ will have to. _Him_ , even as he insists that there's no other way, that Ed has to give his support. _He'll_ have to live with this and there's no way he'll see it or that he'll let himself see it.

Ed tells himself it's all the innocent lives that make him breathe the words "I won't be able to offer it" and that's part of it but it's not all of it.

There's a moment of silence and then the other man's voice is there in Ed's ear, tighter, like it might snap. "Won't be able to-"

"Offer it." Ed closes his eyes, bracing himself. "I'm sorry. Labour won't be supporting this."

He keeps his eyes shut, tells himself the other man will be calm. Will be reasonable. He tells himself a lot of things and he pretends that he believes some of them.

"You're letting us down." The voice is sharp now and Ed swallows hard, a pang going through him at the sound. _I'm letting you down_ is what flashes in his head for the barest moment before Ed pushes it away because it's ridiculous.

"You're-" The words are harder now, and Ed almost winces. "You're failing us."

Ed closes his eyes, digs his teeth into his lip, tries to keep his voice calm. "I don't accept that" is all he can manage and the words sound weak even to him. He doesn't accept it-that's true. But he can feel something beneath the words, the beat of the conversation they're not having, that Ed sometimes feels like he isn't having with everyone around him and sometimes feels just like he isn't having with the man on the other end of the phone.

He tries to go on. "I think we're going too fast. You're the one who wants to leap into this, head over heels-"

(But then that's what _he_ always does, in that way that is both utterly exasperating and at the same time almost endearing in his sheer conviction that _he_ knows what's right, that he knows the right thing to do, he just needs to do _something-)_

  _He_ laughs then, and Ed winces, because that laugh-Ed's heard him laugh before and that isn't how he laughs. It's cold and raw and a little desperate, that laugh and it makes Ed's fist clench tight around the phone.

"Well, then accept something else." The laughter is dying away now, and that voice is colder, harder. "You're failing them."

Ed presses his lips together and shakes his head, stupidly, even though the other man can't see him, because those words are prickling at all the thoughts underneath, the whispering doubts that nag at every decision like this, and this one more than any other.

"You're failing all the people you claim to represent" and Ed's eyes snap open, anger leaping sharp in his chest, the words hot and sick in his stomach-

"Assad's a threat to everyone-"

"War's a greater threat." He snaps out the words, fist clenching tight, that anger climbing hotter and higher with each word. "You want to go into this eyes blind-I'm trying to _protect_ people-"

_"So am I-"_ and Ed knows that. That's the worst bit of this, that he knows it. He knows the other man is trying to protect them and it would be easier if he was lying. It would be easier in most ways if Ed could hate him but he's almost given up on that ever happening.

"I _know."_ The words shake and Ed hates that he is the only one who leaves his voice like this. "I know that's your intention" because he has to try to sound reasonable, because maybe he could persuade him, because if there's anyone who _could_ persuade him-"But I think you're going about this the wrong way."

There's a moment's silence during which Ed listens to their harsh, ragged breaths and realises that they're both struggling for air without knowing  it.

"So, essentially, we have to let more innocent people die because of your concerns about finding a better way?"

Something snaps then because those people, those people he's trying to protect-"Shouldn't that be a Prime Ministerial concern?" he snaps out, dragging a hand through his hair, almost not noticing the way he's started to pace, fingers whitening around the phone now. He hates it-hates the whole argument, the whole conversation, and the worst part is that the man on the other end of the phone is what he hates most about the situation.

(And that doesn't mean Ed hates _him.)_

(And he doesn't know if he hates that, too.)

"It is one of my concerns-" The voice is lower, those clipped, sharp syllables in Ed's ear, making him curl his fists thinking of _Bullingdon_ and _posh_ and _privileged_ -but something else too, something sharper, warmer that could make him shiver if he thought about it too much.

"It is one of my concerns and that is why we think this is the best strategy."

Ed feels his own head shake back and forth. "I don't" is all he can manage and it comes out small and choked. Because he's tried, he really has, but he knows that won't be enough. It's not enough to rearrange the arguments. It's not enough to rearrange the facts.

There's a silence and that's awful because if there's one thing Ed's used to from him, it's hearing him speak. Even if it's to present some bizarrely out-of-touch argument or to throw some barbed line that makes a smile ache at Ed's mouth even as fury prickles in his chest. Even if it's that, not silence.

"My party can't support this" he says, even more quietly, now, and partly because he needs to hear the words _my party_ to remind himself of what he's doing. His party. The one that got things wrong before. The one that he's meant to be leading. The one that he's meant to change.

They won't get things wrong again.

But he's still silent and Ed can't stop himself talking, because he can't leave it like this, not with this silence pressing in all around him, he can't-

"I know this isn't what you were hoping for-" He almost does it then, almost says his name but instead the title crawls out of his mouth as though that can plaster over everything beneath this conversation. "Prime Minister-"

(That everything that they both dance around but don't touch and that Ed sometimes isn't even sure he believes in.)

(Or dares to believe in and he isn't sure if he wants to or not.)

"No, it isn't what I bloody hoped for-" And the words are harsher and rawer than they've ever been and Ed swallows hard, something dark and small and almost ashamed lodging itself into his chest, even though he has every right to disagree, every right to object, every right to oppose-it's what they're supposed to _do-_

And he tried to agree. He tried too hard to agree.

He opens his mouth but then "Do you care?" is suddenly loud in his ear and he almost pulls the phone away, but the words come again, a little twisted now with something so raw that it makes Ed wince.

"Do you care that you're letting those people down?"

Ed closes his eyes because he can't mean that. He can't, Ed tells himself, and doesn't ask how he would know.

"Prime Minister-"

"You're letting America down." The voice is almost shaking for a moment and then is stronger, growing louder with each word. "You're letting America down and you're letting our citizens down."

And that makes the anger jump white-hot in his chest, because that is _not-_

It's not what Ed's doing and the other man knows it. He has to know that.

(Ed doesn't know why but he might _need_ him to know-)

He takes another breath, fights his voice flat into a semblance of calm. "I don't see it that way" he manages and instead of flat, the words come out harder, more determined, his teeth suddenly clenched so hard it hurts and he wrenches his mouth open, his hands curling into fists instead, one around the phone, gripping the conversation tighter.

"If you don't support us, you might as well side with Russia-" The words are cracking down the phone line and Ed feels his own eyes widen, anger suddenly uncurling hot and angry in his chest because _how-how dare he-_

The words are cracking with anger and something else too, something primal, that makes Ed shudder and close his eyes.

The voice is louder now, smashing its' way into Ed's thoughts, through his best-laid plans-"You might as well side with fucking Lovrov-"

Something snaps, something that was holding Ed's words back and he's gripping the edge of his desk now, his voice hard and hurting as he spits out "Who the _hell_ do you think you are?" He's shaking and it could just be with anger and that would be so much easier.

(He doesn't dare to touch the thought of it being something else and that just makes him angrier.)

"I'm trying to do my _job-"_ he manages, voice choked with anger, and that's when the other man shouts, actually _shouts,_ "And I'm trying to do mine!"

It's another reminder-that he's in charge, he calls the shots, that he-thinks he _belongs_ there, the way he's probably always thought he belonged in these type of places and that's just something new to squeeze Ed's eyes shut again, his head almost aching with the arguments and meetings and this _thing_ , stretched taut between the two of them under a disagreement-

"I'm trying to protect innocent people and you're-" There's barely a breath during which Ed can feel himself tensing, as though the words are already sharpening, ready to hit him-

and then they explode.

"You're playing with their lives-to make some cheap political _point-"_ Ed hears himself draw in a breath that aches, a bone-deep shiver suddenly resonating through his whole body. "Some _point_ for your own bloody reputation."

The words hover there, quivering in the air and they slam into him. They're more than a punch, more than a shove, even as he hears something fall and a sharp pain shoots through his hand-they're slamming through his whole body, leaving him shivering, sick. He becomes aware, vaguely, that he's got his hand pressed over his mouth and wrenches it away. The other's clenched into a fist, and when he lifts it, his knuckles are red, where he's apparently thrown it into his desk. He stares at the floor, eyes tracing the pattern on the carpet, noticing it in a way he never has before, because all he can feel is something so white-hot that it blurs his vision and when he speaks, the words are trembling, cracking in his mouth and he doesn't even know what he's saying.

"Don't you _dare-"_ Because all he _wants_ is to help them, all he _wants_ is to make a difference, it's all that he can think about sometimes, so that his head aches and his mind spins with all the ones he's not finding, not reaching, not _helping_ , and he can't sleep with it and it's always there, that he's not doing _enough_ , that _he's_ not enough-"How _dare_ you think that I'd put people-" He can hardly breathe to say it. "People's fucking _lives_ at risk to bloody-"

The words are sharp and hissed and jagged at the other end. "Well, trust me, that's what I think."

Ed stops then, the words hovering there, sinking in, soaking through his skin. He doesn't throw anything into his desk this time, doesn't say anything. Instead, he stands there, the clamour of words in his head rising and then slowly scattering to leave simply the stark, bone-deep fear spreading through him. The stark, simple question ringing in his head that he's too terrified to touch, the question of even one grain of what the other man has just said being the truth.

The words come out low and tight, curling on themselves to stop themselves from trembling. "That's honestly what you think of me." And Ed doesn't know if he's telling him or asking him.

There's a silence and Ed swallows past a throat that's suddenly swollen with something he can't name. "That's the person you think I-" He breaks off because he can't ask it. He can't bear that he doesn't know if he's asking it.

"If you won't back it-" His voice is back, lower now, lower and harder in Ed's ear and Ed winces. "If you won't support it, fine. That's your decision."

Ed waits because they can't leave it like that. He knows they won't, not with this between them.

And he's right because then in his ear, the other man says "But you can live with the consequences. You're good at that."

The words are twisted a little and Ed closes his eyes at them but he's almost used to that. He knows now that those words will never stop-even if from the man at the other end of the phone, who almost uses them without thinking, so engrained is it in him to battle and parry and do whatever he thinks will serve his party best (and Ed isn't sure if he should hate him or not for that) then from everyone else, from the whispers that will follow both of them and they're whispers that he made.

And he doesn't put the phone down because what was almost a question is still hanging there between them and Ed doesn't know why but he can't quite let go of it.

"And in answer to your question." The voice is low and harsh and there's something in it that hurts. Hurts sharp and cruel and Ed knows, right then, that it's not just him it's hurting.

His voice gashes itself out. "Yes. That is the person I think you are."

Ed stands quite still and a sickness spreads through his stomach, something that leaves him shivering and he stands motionless, as if he's on the edge of a cliff. He blinks, his eyes suddenly hot and prickling with something like anger but that hurts far more and he squeezes them shut. He stands still, very still, as though that can pull his thoughts into place while his mind spins, suddenly grasping for what way is up, searching for solid ground.

It shouldn't feel like this, like something slamming into him, something that leaves him crushed and scrambling, words scrabbled in his throat.

It takes a long time for the words to come, and his voice is far lower this time, almost a whisper. "In that case-" The words catch in his throat and he doesn't let himself think about why. "We have nothing further to say to each other, Prime Minister." He uses the title deliberately, and keeps his eyes fixed on the floor.

There's another moment stretched out long between them and for a moment, Ed thinks he's going to say something.

(He doesn't know if he wants him to or not.)

And then the phone is put down at the other end.

Ed stands there for a few moments, listening to the tone, as if he's waiting for something else, and he has no idea what. He stands there and then slowly ends the call. He stands very still and tries to pretend he isn't shaking. He lowers his head and finds himself folding his arms very tight as if he can make himself as small as possible, as if he's holding himself together. He doesn't let himself notice that he's biting his lip hard enough that blood touches the tip of his tongue and that his eyes are squeezed very tightly shut.

He stands very still so that he doesn't have to notice that he's trembling a little and that his eyes are prickling.

 

******************

 

David waits until he's seen the interview all the way through before he rings him. He rings his mobile and tries not to feel anything about the fact he's the one with that mobile number.

"Prime Minister?" Something about hearing his voice makes David smile and he doesn't think about why. He doesn't think about how he used to hear that voice almost every day, and he doesn't think about how he grabs onto the sound whenever he hears it again.

"I saw your interview" he says quietly, and debates with calling him "Mr. Miliband" for a moment just to wind him up, but decides against it. Instead, he just presses the phone more closely to his ear and waits.

"That's the purpose of interviews, isn't it? For people to see them."

"Amazing. That your wit hasn't improved a little since we last spoke." David winces. "Sorry, that came out wrong" he says, before the other man can put the phone down. "Sorry."

"This should be a historic moment. David Cameron apologizing for something-"

"Hilarious-"

"In fact, if I get the car to turn around, we could probably commemorate it properly-"

"You're not funny-"

"No, honestly. I could find the exact spot we just drove over-I could probably get a plaque-"

_"Less_ funny-"

"You seem to be laughing, Prime Minister."

David stops dead halfway across his study and glances at his reflection in the mirror. There's a grin tugging at his mouth and he shoves away the fact that he only smiles like that when he's arguing. When he's arguing with-

"I see I haven't persuaded you" he says, and it's only now that he watches that smile slide away, as they move closer to this issue-this issue that they've both danced around for two years now, the issue that for a long time grew so many thorns between them David sometimes thought they'd never break them all.

There's a pause before the reply comes: "No. Not yet."

David nods slowly, because it's what he expected. It's what he _should_ have expected.

"But..." David's head lifts as the voice pauses for a moment and then says "I hope you will."

David shakes his head, that smile tugging sadly at the corners of his mouth now. "You don't think I will."

Another pause and then"...No."

David nods, already resigned to this. Maybe they'll never agree on this. Maybe they'll never agree on a lot of things. He still clings to the sound of that voice, though, that voice that he's got used to arguing with, for some reason he doesn't understand.

(Maybe because he never really lets himself touch it or think of it, and David knows it's the same for _him.)_

(And ironically, this is one thing they might be in agreement on.)

"But I still think you should try."

"I don't believe I need your permission to try." David keeps his tone light and he can hear a smile in the other man's voice. "You wouldn't ask my permission anyway."

"I wouldn't." David is smiling when he shouldn't be, the lifting sensation that always comes when they have words like this, in these tones, a back-and-forth he shouldn't like as much as he does, and then he says "And I will try."

"I'm sure you will. I look forward to it."

"We can't seem to agree on this." David wants to bite back the words the second they're out of his mouth.

"There isn't much we agree on, though, Prime Minister."

There's nothing David can say to that so instead, he blurts it out. "I thought you did well. In the interview."

"You watched it all?" Anyone else wouldn't hear it but David does-the faint surprise underneath the words and he smiles, childishly glad at having been the one to cause it.

"Important to know what the opposition is saying."

"I'm not your opposition anymore." His voice is lower now, and David winces because he hadn't meant it to sound like that.

"That doesn't-" He hesitates but he's got to say it. "I didn't mean it like that" he says and this is one of the few people he can say something like this to.

There's a few moments of silence and then "I know." His voice is softer now, the way David hears rarely and always  hangs onto, even now.

"I watched it" he says quietly and the words are there, underneath, even as he manages "I wanted to see-"

The sentence is taut with what could finish it and David bites his lip. He can hear both of their breathing together, harsher than usual, pulling at the air, reaching for something.

"Thank you." The words are small, breathed into his ear and David nods. (He wants to do more but he doesn't know what, or he doesn't let himself think about what.)

"Whatever you decide-" His own voice is lower now, almost a whisper. "I look forward to hearing it."

There's another pause, punctuated by their breathing and what they could be saying, and then he hears "I look forward to you persuading me."

David's fingers whiten around the phone.

"Well, I'll-" He could say something else but he doesn't know what he wants to say. There's so much that it's easier to say nothing at all. "I'll let you go" he says quietly. "But I-" He blurts the words out, too quickly. "I thought you were very good. Tonight."

"Thank you." He hears the other man's hesitation for the briefest of seconds, before he says, a little too quickly "And thank you for calling."

"It was-" He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to tell him that in the moments he spent watching that interview, he was drumming his fingers, trying to decide whether to make the call or not.

"I wanted to" David says quietly and that's almost too much of the truth for them both.

"Thank you" the voice says again, and then "I mean it, Cameron."

The use of his surname opens David's eyes and he feels that smile creep back to his mouth. "Good to know" he says, and then adds quietly "Miliband."

He doesn't know how but he knows the other man grins at the name-that grin David knows all too well.

"Have a good evening, Miliband" he says after a moment and when Miliband says "You too", David catches a glimpse of his own smile in the mirror.

"Goodnight" he says and he waits a few seconds after Miliband says "Goodnight, Cameron" to disconnect the call, listening to the connection breathe between them for a little longer.

 

******************

 

 

Ed pretends he isn't expecting it when his mobile rings and when the name appears, he doesn't know if he's lying to himself or not.

He stares at the phone for a moment, the streetlights casting an orange glow on the screen, and then slowly moves his thumb to accept it, because-

(because he couldn't not right now, but he's not going to say that out loud, not for-)

"Prime Minister?" It's easier to use that. It's easier because of the strangeness of it, of the smile unfurling in his chest, and the fact that even though he hasn't let himself think of it, a part of him's been holding onto the idea.

The voice on the other end is low and as polished as always but Ed smiles at the sound of it, the curve of the tones. "I saw your interview."

Ed feels the smile crawl to his mouth, spread until he can feel himself grinning. He keeps his head down, though he's sure no one can see him through the window. "That's the purpose of interviews, isn't it? For people to see them."

(He knows this. Even amongst all the fallout, all the recriminations, this is something he knows. Something he feels as if he's finally grabbed onto, after having been reaching for it without even realising.)

"Amazing." Ed can hear the smile in the voice and it just deepens his own. "That your wit hasn't improved a little since we last spoke-sorry." Ed bites his lip to hold back his laughter as he pictures the other man's wince on the other end of the phone. "That came out wrong. Sorry."

It didn't. It came out the way Ed needed it to. He glances outside, feeling colder just at the sight of people in coats, and bundles himself further into the phone call, feeling himself relax a little into the seat as he does so. "This should be a historic moment. David Cameron apologizing for something."

"Hilarious."

"In fact, if I get the car to turn around, we could probably commemorate the occasion properly-"

"You're not funny."

Ed smirks at the tone, at the smile under the words, and he chooses to ignore the fact that right now, he feels more real, more anchored than he did answering any of those questions, on any of the subjects that he's supposed to be an expert on.

"No, honestly-" He can feel the laughter trembling in his chest, far too much like a giggle. "I could find the exact spot we just drove over-I could probably get a plaque-"

_"Less_ funny." Ed can't stop the grin spreading even further over his mouth at the laughter he can hear threatening to break through at the other end of the phone and at the strange leaping he feels, under his ribs and his heartbeat, at the fact he's the one drawing that laughter out.

"You seem to be laughing, Prime Minister." He hears his own voice crack treacherously, his own laughter threatening to creep through. He can't stop the grin now, feeling slightly idiotic for beaming this hard even alone in the back of a car

(but it was the same when they used to face each other across the chamber or a meeting table, with _him_ tossing out those polished lines, the indignation spiking in Ed's chest even as he felt that laughter tug at his mouth, feeling the same way he used to when his brother tickled him as a child-shrieking and indignant and hating himself for the squeals of laughter shaking his chest)

Ed knows the other man can hear it too and for a few moments, a silence spreads out through the phone between them. It's not cold or distant. It's almost companionable, in the strange way they often were, even though Ed sometimes had to remind himself they weren't supposed to be.

"I see I haven't persuaded you." His voice is lower now, the smile sliding away, and Ed feels his teeth dig into his own lip, the memories rising up sharply of their eyes meeting across the chamber in that debate, those blue eyes narrowed into his own for a moment before moving on as though Ed was nothing at all but that glance like a blow, a shove of contempt that had made Ed lower his eyes and bite his lip, blood creeping up his cheeks.

Ed knows that the other man watched the interview and he knows he would tell him anyway. Because they've always told each other, even when they can't stand to hear whatever the other has to say.

( _except then_ , he knows the other man thinks, and the worst part is that Ed doesn't even know if he's right)

His voice is lower now, a whisper. "No. Not yet."

There's a silence on the other end of the phone and Ed can feel the words tugging at his chest, the words he didn't know were true until a few minutes ago. "But...I hope you will."

(He'd hoped, last time. Searched for a way he could support it.)

"You don't think I will." The voice is low, resigned in a way that makes Ed close his eyes and almost wish-

"No" he says quietly and then-"But I still think you should try."

(Then again, they wouldn't be them if the other man didn't try. Because they're always trying, to drag each other's eyes round to each other's points. They've spent the last five years trying.)

"I don't believe I need your permission to try." He can hear the smile again, and he can't escape the fact that he always knows when the other man's smiling.

"You wouldn't ask my permission anyway."

"I wouldn't" agrees the other man and then, suddenly, softer "But I will try."

"I'm sure you will." If there's one thing Ed's sure of, it's that. The smile is what pushes the words up and out of his mouth. "I look forward to it."

There's the slightest of pauses and then "We can't seem to agree on this." The words are light but there's a tightness underneath them and for some reason, there's an ache in Ed's chest at the memory of those two years ago, their eyes locking as they waited for the words to be read out and the sudden recoiling in Ed's mind, the shivering of _I don't know if-this isn't what I wished for._

"There isn't much we agree on, though, Prime Minister." The words come out sadder than he meant, sadder and heavier and it's only as he says them that he realises he's not sure how true they are anymore.

He can hear the other man breathing and for a moment, his eyes flutter closed, and-"I thought you did well. In the interview."

It's almost blurted out and Ed feels the bloom of something under his ribs, something a little like a smile, a little deeper than laughter, underneath the spark of something-

"You watched it all?" He can hear the question in his voice, a little more hopeful than he'd have liked. (A little more real.)

"Important to know what the opposition is saying." He can hear the smile and his eyes flicker closed because they sting even though they weren't meant to.

(He knows that a little too well.)

"I'm not your opposition anymore." The words come out softer, sadder, smaller. His eyes drift to his left hand and settle on the bareness of his fourth finger, where his wedding ring should be.

"That doesn't-" The other man breaks off abruptly. "I didn't mean it like that."

Ed feels a small smile tug at his own mouth. "I know."

"I watched it all." The other man's voice is lower now, tauter with something underneath the words that makes Ed bite his lip. He hears the other man draw in a breath. "I wanted to see-"

Ed feels his breath catch and wonders if the other man will finish the sentence.

(or if he wants him to)

(and whether he knows why or not)

He wonders but when the silence is stretched taut between them, he breathes out the words "Thank you."

Ed realises then that he's gripping the phone tight. He tastes something sharp and bitter and realises his teeth are digging into his lip. It feels as though he's scrabbling desperately for words, the way he sometimes seemed to find himself when it was _him_ on the other end of the phone.

"Whatever you decide-" The other man is almost whispering and for some reason, Ed's tongue traces his bottom lip for a moment. "I look forward to hearing it."

The words are soft and for some reason, make Ed's eyes squeeze shut. He doesn't know why he has to take a moment before he can speak, why there suddenly seems to be a lump in his throat.

"I look forward to you persuading me" he says, and he means it.

There's a long silence during which Ed grasps for words and doesn't find any. But he wants the silence to stretch on, and he's not sure why.

(He's never sure why.)

"Well, I'll-I'll let you go. But I-" The words are rushed this time, and for some reason that makes Ed smile. "I thought you were very good. Tonight."

"Thank you." Ed lets himself smile, for the briefest moment. "And thank you for calling."

"It was-" For a second, those words hover there, between them and Ed doesn't know if he wants to hear the rest or not. But then the other man just says, quietly "I wanted to."

For a few seconds, Ed just listens to the two of them breathing together. In the back of the car, out of view of the driver, away from the backbiting and the whispers and the manoeuvres, it feels different, closer sometimes than when they're in the chamber these days and their eyes meet.

"Thank you" he says, and then he swallows, his eyes darting away from the finger where his ring should be, the name fitting back in his mouth like it belongs there. "I mean it, Cameron."

There's a pause as the name hangs between them and then-"Good to know." Ed can hear the smile creeping back in and his own follows, and then Cameron's voice lowers as he says "Miliband."

He feels the grin spread over his face at the sound of the name Cameron all too frequently uses for him-a name that should sound like an insult, but from Cameron, never has been.

"Have a good evening, Miliband." Ed doesn't try to hide the smile in his own voice as he says "You too."

The last word's gentler. "Goodnight" and Cameron's voice is almost a whisper so Ed's own voice softens as his fingers tighten on the phone and with a pang in his chest that he doesn't really understand, he says "Goodnight, Cameron."

For a few seconds neither of them disconnects the call and they both wait there and suddenly, Ed's breathing is catching in his throat and a part of him wants to say something. Anything to keep the call going.

(He used to get calls from Cameron almost every week, calls of arguing and debating and sometimes outright yelling-)

(calls he would never have admitted that he liked)

The call disconnects. Ed sits there a while longer with the phone pressed to his ear and it isn't until the car turns into his own road

(where the streetlights should catch his wedding ring, where he should be wearing his ring)

(where he should, where he should, where he should)

that he exhales shakily and too slowly ends the call himself.

(Cameron ended it a while ago but it didn't feel like it _ended.)_

 

******************

 

 

It's in the middle of the debate-when David is focusing on breathing in and out and looking calm and not biting his lip because that would not help and he has to look _calm_

(he always has to look calm, even when calm is the last thing anyone should be)

and everyone else is taking turns standing up, rattling through a pre-prepared speech, explaining and expanding and _not agreeing_ , that David meets his eyes across the chamber.

He waits for the triumph almost defiantly. Because of course there'll be triumph. This is all _he_ has wanted, ever since he managed to carve his way to the top of the Labour party, ever since he managed to slide a knife into his brother's back and wriggle into place. All he's wanted is to make a stand. Some moral objection that he can throw at David, dripping with sanctimony and piousness all to cover up the fact that there's no backbone behind it, nothing practical-just a handful of ideas and what he probably imagines are good intentions.

He waits and there's no triumph. It would be so much easier if there was but there isn't. Instead, _he_ just stares back at David, eyes dark and wide and something like stricken or shocked or-

(something that jolts David)

(he's never noticed how dark his eyes are before)

and he just stares back. Like he's asking David a question. Like he wants David to answer.

(Like he's telling David something.)

David doesn't know and doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to feel unfair, doesn't want to feel cruel, even under the silence, even in the words he hasn't thrown at him. Because he can't afford to feel cruel, not right now. They've got a battle to win. So they can help.

And he's not helping David. He isn't helping.

Dark eyes widen a little, fixed on his own and David hardens his own gaze, stares back, feeling the injustice and fury and all the garbled, mangled feelings that have shaped themselves into half-formed words and that he can't quite throw out there rise up in his chest, until he feels as though he's glaring across the chamber.

(But he's careful not to. He's always careful.)

He just stares back across the chamber, his teeth almost grinding with the sheer _cowardice_ of the whole thing and not until the other man looks away with something like a flinch, does David let his own eyes wander back, back to everyone else who's fighting with him, and these are the ones that are meant to be on his side.

Not until he sees that flinch does he allow himself something like a smile.

 

******************

 

 

Ed searches his gaze out before he can stop himself. He tries not to but that's when he looks up across the chamber and their eyes lock. Ed feels himself swallow as their gazes hold onto each other, each of them unwilling to break the deadlock.

_He_ doesn't glare-of course he wouldn't, he's probably been warned not to-but somehow, Ed almost wishes he would. His face is blank, eyes somehow looking down at Ed even though they're both sitting and it smacks Ed in the face with the sheer contempt of the look.

But there's something else there too, underneath-something sharper, wilder, that sends a stab of guilt into Ed's ribs, which is ridiculous because he's not done anything _wrong._

(Because _he's_ moving too fast, the way he _always_ moves too fast, and he can never see when you need to consider it more carefully, he never stops to bloody _think-)_

But those eyes stay on his own and Ed can't look away because he's not enjoying this. Ed's all too aware _he_ wouldn't believe him but he's not enjoying hearing the other man's plans torn to pieces by his own backbenchers. Because even though he's not thinking and he's leaping in head-first

(the way he does with _everything)_

Ed knows _he_ still believes he's doing the right thing, and having that destroyed might be the worst thing there is.

(Ed should know.)

He's not enjoying this but then something about the other man's gaze changes, narrows, and it's like a blow. For the first time, a glimpse of what's underneath peeks out, and Ed flinches before he can stop himself because the anger

(and hurt, because that's the worst part, the hurt)

is like a punch in the chest.

Ed lets his gaze slide away and when a few minutes later, he catches sight of the other man's smile, it lodges something deep under his ribs, under his heart, something that he won't touch.

 

******************

 

 

They're winning, David realises before they're even halfway through. They're winning, not just from his own MPs, but the other side too. He might not have even needed the other side but he's grateful for them all the same, because this isn't just a rush to war, whatever anyone might say or think or protest about.

This is something he has to do. That they have to do. This is his job. And he'll protect them even if they don't want him to.

But they do want to. They want to and they're saying it. And Corbyn, who's staring at his knees while muttering away to McDonnell, isn't what they want.

It might not be plain sailing-every few sentences, there's another question, another call to apologize for remarks he might or might not have made

(at this stage, David honestly can't remember but he does have to admit, if only to himself, it sounds like something he might have said when tired and drained, and he does have to admit, if only to himself, that in some cases, he thinks he might be somewhat justified)

But his eyes have been searching and sweeping the chamber and he'd pretended he didn't know what for until halfway through his opening speech, they'd found him, sitting up there at the side of the chamber, his eyes fixed on David.

David had looked back at Miliband for a split second and something had jolted as their eyes held.

(Something like relief. Something like hope.)

He'd looked away but his eyes have strayed back again and again. Each time, there's been a call to apologize, it's been harder not to let his eyes find Miliband's again, and the few times he has, there's been no triumph in Miliband's expression, no matter how hard David has searched in his quick glances. Instead, there's been something almost like a wince, and a couple of times Miliband's eyes have closed, as if in exasperation, when David has skated over the moment (because he's not offering an apology for remarks he didn't even make publicly, and when they've got an issue of life and death to talk over.)

(And because he can't quite not believe it, either.)

There's another call to apologize and David deals with it again (and reminds them that this isn't what they're supposed to be talking about because it isn't-it really _isn't)_ and then his gaze sweeps to Miliband's automatically this time, and before he can stop it, he feels the smile peek out at his mouth at the sight of Miliband slapping a hand over his eyes.

He watches for a drawn-out second, in which laughter bubbles in his throat but he manages to hold it back, because something about that gesture is so utterly- _Milibandy_ , that David can't help but smirk. He almost can't help but laugh.

(he can't help but want to look at it again and again, taking it in and holding onto it.)

But when he looks up again, it's to see Miliband leaning forward, chin on his hand, and his eyes straying to David once more.

They look at each other for a few moments this time, and David lets the smallest smile touch the edges of his mouth. Miliband's mouth twitches for a moment and they just watch each other. It's the briefest of seconds but it bumps and drags between them and David wants to say something to him.

(he's not sure whether or not he knows what to say)

Slowly, he pulls his eyes away from Miliband's and listens as yet another person gets up to say they're in favour of the government. In favour of his plan. In favour of him.

In favour of helping.

David doesn't let himself grin but he lets that smile peek out again, a little bigger this time, as he holds onto the fact that this time _, this_ time, it might work.

(and Miliband's eyes big and dark, and that hand slapping over its' eyes, in a way that was exasperated and infuriated and somehow, almost just for the two of them.)

Ed doesn't mean to slap his hands over his eyes but once the other man brushes off the fifth request for an apology with the slightest smile, he can't help himself.

(Because it's so typically bloody Cameron, to completely refuse to apologize and it's so utterly typical that Ed's fighting back a wild urge to laugh.)

He doesn't know if his argument is going to win-

(he doesn't think his side of the debate's going to win now, and each person who speaks makes Ed more certain that they're not going to)

-but with each person who speaks, Ed feels more and more doubtful, and all he can see are those people-the children who will be playing right now, laughing and running and looking forward to a future they don't know they'll never reach.

(and then he thinks of all the more who'll never reach it if they don't do something, but this might not be the only thing they can do)

It's the worst decision in the world and he knows it's probably not the last time he'll have to make it.

But then, of course, it's not him making it.

He watches Cameron from his seat at the side of the chamber and a part of him wants desperately for a moment to be sitting opposite him. To be able to oppose this, to try to make Cameron see. To try to make him see differently from last time.

When Cameron refuses to apologize again, Ed has to actually shove his face into his hands because there are times when Cameron is so-so exasperatingly _impossible_ to deal with that all Ed can do is laugh

(of course Cameron's the only one who makes him laugh like that)

But it's when someone else is speaking and Ed's leaning forward, chin on his hand, that Cameron's eyes flicker to his own and when they meet, Ed feels something lurch suddenly-a jolting want to reach out, to-

(he bites his lip without knowing why)

But he looks back at Cameron and he knows that Cameron wants this, because he thinks it's needed and he can't hate Cameron for that.

(Though he could never really hate Cameron.)

(Even when he thought he did.)

Cameron looks at him and then the smallest smile flickers into sight at the corner of his mouth, and Ed smiles back. He doesn't even think about it, doesn't even think about what he knows, all too well, that Cameron probably said-

(because it's such a _Cameron-ish_ moment, to blurt something out, something he didn't mean, and Ed knows that, and somehow knows that only he would)

and he smiles back because he always ended up smiling at Cameron, even when they were meant to be arguing, even when they were meant to be disagreeing, even when he was meant to be showing Cameron how wrong he was-

and Cameron ends up smiling back.

Their eyes hold onto each other for a few moments and Ed watches, until Cameron's gaze slides away.

(He pretends he didn't want to hold on longer.)

 

******************

 

David feels him next to him and doesn't turn, because he's not going to look at him. They're going to lose it, he already knows it, they're going to lose it and it's because of _him._

(Because he lied. He'll wriggle and evade and squirm-all the things he accuses David of doing-but he lied, and David won't let go of it.)

David doesn't look at him but he can feel him hovering, waiting to speak. David grabs up a sandwich he won't eat because he's not going to help him. A part of him wants nothing more than to hear his justification, his plaintive attempts to explain, but David's not going to help him.

(Even though he wants to turn around, wants to grab him, get him by the collar, shake him and-)

(And.)

It's then that the other man moves and their arms brush and David should pull away but he doesn't.

(He doesn't and in that moment, they're breathing together, their arms touching, and he doesn't want to-)

"David." It's that voice, too near his ear, and David shakes his head before he can stop himself, and it's his Christian name that makes him freeze. The voice is tentative, nervous, and David can't look at him.

(Because he shouldn't sound like that.)

David stands there, something trembling and furious rising in his chest, something that sends a shaking through his hands, and then his hand falls onto David's arm.

It only lies there a second before David drags his hand away but in the moment those fingers grasp at his arm, David's far too aware of him, far too aware of the finger brushing the bare skin of his wrist, and the warmth of that hand, just beginning to grip.

David pulls his arm away and it's only then, as the ghost of that grip lingers on his skin, that David's gaze snaps to his face. He just looks at him and then he says _"Don't."_

It shakes in the air between them, cracking with something more than the lies and the anger, and the other man flinches back, almost as if David's hit him. But he doesn't move away from David. He stands there and watches him, so that it's David who steps back and turns round and has to walk away. But the other man stands there, staring at him and David can feel that gaze following him, and it isn't until he's reached the door that he realises he's trembling.

Miliband's still watching as he leaves, and David doesn't know if he hates it or not.

 

******************

 

Ed moves closer to him almost without realising, because he's standing there, staring at the sandwiches (that he's probably completely unfamiliar with, and Ed wishes he could think that with the appropriate amount of contempt) but it's the look on his face that makes Ed move so that he's standing next to him before he's even thought about what he's going to say and then realises that there's nothing he can say.

He's going to win. Ed's going to win this debate and _he-he's_ going to lose. And something about that niggles at Ed. Because he knows that the other man didn't start this debate for the sake of rushing into a battle, no matter what Ed might have said to him.

(and it doesn't make Ed happy to be winning, and it should)

But it's the look on his face that leaves Ed scrabbling for something to say. Because he's horribly aware that he's probably the last person the other man wants to see

(and he shouldn't mind)

And now Ed's standing next to him and all he can do is hover and grope for words that he knows will be thrown out before they're even listened to

(because _he_ never listens, and that's the entire _problem.)_

The other man snatches up a sandwich and it's then that Ed steps forward, some surge of desperation pushing him forward, and before he knows it he's putting his arm out. He doesn't take the other man's arm but they brush, and Ed waits for the other man to pull away.

He doesn't, and Ed feels his breath catch in his throat. Somehow he doesn't move away. Neither of them do and their arms are lingering against each other and Ed realises then that he's trembling a little.

He swallows. "David." His voice comes out weak, a little quavering, with a crack on the last syllable and he stares at him, waiting for anything, something, and it's only as he watches that he realises that he's used his first name.

Ed waits, not knowing quite what he's hoping for, as the other man stares studiously away from him. A movement catches Ed's eyes and his gaze drops to see that the other man's hands are shaking a little.

The sight of that is what sends the pang through Ed's chest, something that aches and bring his teeth back to dig into his lip, and before he knows what he's doing, he's reaching out for him.

His hand falls onto the other man's arm and his fingers, reaching out for something, catch his sleeve, one just dancing across his skin for a moment and something jolts in Ed's chest at the sensation.

And for a second, neither of them pulls back and Ed's fingers curl before he can stop them, so that for a moment, he's almost holding onto-

The other man yanks his hand back so violently that Ed almost loses his balance and his voice shakes in the air. _"Don't."_

It's his voice that makes Ed flinch away, because his voice never shakes like that. There's something there underneath and for a moment, their eyes meet and Ed feels it, taut and cracking between them.

But he doesn't move away, even as he lets his hand drop back to his side. He doesn't step back but just watches him, not sure if he wants to say anything or not, and when the other man steps round him and heads for the door, Ed feels his mouth open, searching for anything that might make him stay, stay and  let him explain-

(there's nothing to explain but somehow he wants there to be)

Cameron turns when he reaches the door and their eyes lock for a moment. Cameron drags his gaze away the second he sees Ed watching but he still turned back.

(Cameron still turned back to him and Ed doesn't know how he's meant to feel about that.)

 

******************

 

When he sees Miliband in the Portcullis canteen, standing at the sandwich counter, he gets up and heads towards him without thinking about it. He can't stop the smile that rises at the sight of Miliband, even as a sudden nervousness rises underneath as he comes up behind him

(which is ridiculous because it's _Miliband)_

He's ready to tap Miliband on the shoulder when another idea strikes him and leaning in, he mutters "Not choosing bacon there, are you, Miliband?"

Miliband almost jumps off the floor and David feels the laughter explode out of his mouth. Miliband spins round to stare at him, hand slamming against his chest. "Bloody _hell_ , Cameron!"

David shakes his head, still shaking with laughter. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just-wanted to lighten the mood." He holds up his hands. "You can't blame me."

He watches as Miliband attempts what is clearly a scowl, but his mouth twitches treacherously and David grins as Miliband eventually dissolves into laughter. "For God's sake, Cameron-"

David's hand touches his shoulder before he can stop himself. "I haven't convinced you, have I?" he asks quietly and the laughter dies away as Miliband meets his gaze.

(David knows he won't lie. He doesn't ask how he knows.)

Miliband looks quietly back at him. "No" he says and David nods because he already knew the answer.

Miliband's watching him closely, as if David might be about to explode at him. "I'm-" He draws in a breath and then suddenly shakes his head. "I'm not sorry" he says quietly. "That I don't agree with you. I mean-I wish I had been able to-"

"You don't need to be sorry." David says the words without thinking but he hears the truth of them immediately.

(Last time, he hadn't been able to look at him. It had been during PMQs that he'd perfected the gaze upwards that allowed him to avoid even a glimpse of Miliband, allowing himself to catch the sound of all of his questions and to throw answers back without even looking at him, because every time he did, that fury was back, leaping white-hot in his chest and his hands wanted to be around Miliband's collar-)

Miliband's watching him and David almost pushes the words out, blurting them a little too fast: "Will you sit with me?"

Miliband's mouth opens and closes, and for a moment, David wishes he'd never asked. He's about to wave it off, tell Miliband it doesn't matter, not to worry, when Miliband gives a little shrug and says "Sure."

They sit down opposite each other and David grins as Miliband fidgets for a few moments before unwrapping the sandwich, still casting David suspicious glances as if waiting for him to start laughing. He's almost got the sandwich to his mouth before he stops and says, with a raised eyebrow, "I'm waiting for the line, Cameron."

David spreads his hands. "What line?"

"Bacon. Sandwich. Camera phone out-"

"There's no camera phone." Off Miliband's disbelieving expression, David relents. "OK, I _have_ a camera phone, but I'm not going to use it on you."

Miliband gives him another, even more disbelieving look if that's possible but he apparently decides he trusts David enough to take a bite. David watches him quietly and waits a few moments before saying "So I didn't convince you this time."

Miliband meets his gaze. "I thought you did a good job" he says quietly and David feels the smile twitch into position at the edge of his mouth. "Thank you."

"You seem to have convinced a lot of others" Miliband says and David smiles again. "But not you."

Miliband looks him straight in the eye. "No, not me."

David nods. "I can accept that."

Miliband's mouth twitches. "Because that's what I was praying for, Cameron. " He winces. "Sorry. That came out-"

"It's all right." The silence hangs awkwardly for a few moments before David says "Are you going to speak?"

Miliband's eyes flicker to his. "No. I don't think-" He takes another bite of the sandwich, chews slowly. "I thought it would draw too much attention."

David nods. "That's fair. Though-" He glances at the table. "I was rather looking forward to hearing you argue again."

The _with me_ is unspoken, but Miliband bites his lip as their eyes meet.

(and their eyes keep meeting-but they often did that, even before the election, even when it would have been so much easier to hate each other)

(Last time, David doesn't know how long it was before he could speak about Miliband without skipping over his name as quickly as possible because if he lingered at all, he ended up spitting out the name, that fury crawling back up in his chest, his hands wanting to flex into fists at his sides, but there was an ache underneath it all too, something bitter and hurting that he didn't touch but that kept his eyes away from Miliband's, even when he could feel the other man's searching his out)

"I suppose that's a compliment." Miliband gives him a little grin which gives David a strange lurching sensation in his chest as he realises how much he's missed that grin.

"It's meant to be" he says and Miliband's eyes soften a little. He puts his sandwich down and looks at David for a few moments, taking him in.

"I miss it too" is all he says before he takes another bite of his sandwich, his cheeks flushing a little. David finds himself watching that colour, wanting to make it rise a little higher.

(In the past he wanted to turn on the Eton charm with Miliband, but he never really had to, somehow. He's used to having to polish his lines, to having to charm, to cajole-it's practically a requirement for most of the events he goes to, for ironing out deals, for negotiating. But somehow, Miliband never seemed overly impressed with it, his eyebrows furrowing a little, and whenever David reluctantly threw off the lines, let some of the sarcasm seep through, he'd catch a little grin at Miliband's mouth, a smile that he'd give David that somehow felt more real than all of that, and that would pull out a smile of David's own that, for once, didn't ache.)

But now, he leans forward a little and lowering his voice, he says "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For being honest."

Miliband meets his eyes. "I wouldn't lie to you" and last time passes between them like a wince.

(He'd seen Miliband's eyes so many times after the last vote, often seeking his out for something, an anger burning beneath, as David avoided his gaze across meeting tables, across the despatch box, even across his own office desk)

(that anger would be there, but underneath there'd be something hurt and reaching  too, and David would deliberately drag his eyes away so he wouldn't reach out and touch it)

 

******************

 

There's something between their gazes that Ed can feel whispering between them and even though Cameron's just called him honest, he finds his eyes creeping down again because there's something about it that scares him.

(it had scared him last time to look at Cameron afterwards, though he'd never have admitted it)

(but what had scared him more had been Cameron not looking at him)

"Nothing about me being required to apologize?" Cameron says with that joke in his tone, that's always there when he's trying to lighten things a little, that Ed knows a little too well.

He meets Cameron's gaze again, raises an eyebrow. "I think you should" he says quietly because he knows that Cameron already knows that and that this is just an easier way of bringing it up.

(it should bother him a lot more than it does that he knows Cameron so well, like a book he keeps reading over and over, though there's always something new)

Cameron smiles, and it's smaller and sadder than the grin Ed's used to. "It's not whether I should, it's whether I can."

Ed stares at him. "I don't understand."

The smile slips away from Cameron's face and he just stares at Ed, head tilted to the side, with a look that's so-so _sad_ that it almost makes Ed ache. "I know" David says, after a long moment of them watching each other. "I know you don't."

The words are so gentle that that makes them hurt more and Ed feels his brow furrow. "Should and can-"

David draws in a breath then and it might be Ed's imagination but for a moment, he thinks those eyes flicker, as if pulling the _Cameron_ back over the _David_ and he shakes his own head without thinking because he doesn't want that. He suddenly realises with a fierce tug of longing that he doesn't want that.

"David?" It sounds like a question and before he can stop himself, he's slid his hand across the table.

David's hand's moving before Ed can snatch his back and for a moment, they stare at each other, their hands caught inches away before David pretends to be straightening the menu and Ed pretends to be adjusting his sleeve.

"Sometimes-" The word snags Ed's attention, pulls his eyes up. David is staring at him, and his lips work for a few moments as if trying to shape the words. Ed watches him, waiting, not rushing him, until David says, voice a little more uncertain now. "Sometimes-I think that's why-"

Ed folds his hands together for something to do with them. His mind's spinning with

_(that'swhyIlostthat'swhyyouwonthat'swhyyou-you-)_

"Why I-" David's mouth snaps shut then, and Ed's eyes meet his, these different words hovering between them and Ed swallows hard.

His voice sounds different when he says "That isn't what you think of me, is it?"

David doesn't look away this time. "What?"

"Your verdict on everyone walking with Jeremy Corbyn through the lobby tonight."

David doesn't look away from him, and Ed has always liked that

(that David doesn't look away from him, even when he's destroying something Ed's said, even when he's dragging something that Ed's said under the harsh lights of logic and practicality and everything that means things will be harder for longer, but David's relentless in explaining it and somehow Ed's never hated him for that)

(he could say the opposite)

David just looks at him and says carefully "I was angry. I said-I said things I didn't mean."

Ed didn't expect him to admit to it, but he's used to that. This is closer to an admission than David would come to with most people and Ed says quietly "You do that."

A smile flickers back into life at David's mouth. "You know."

(Last time, Ed found himself searching for eye contact, after that vote-eye contact which Cameron pushed away, and Ed knew he should leave it, knew that this was how Cameron was dealing with it-not just with losing, but with the fact they weren't doing anything and he knew Cameron always felt he had to be doing something-but he couldn't leave it, even though he knew he should, he couldn't-)

Ed clears his throat and then he says "I know why."

"Why what?"

"I know you want-"

(He hadn't said it last time, he hadn't tried to explain, because he'd been too caught up in the certainty and thrill of being right, and he'd told himself that Cameron didn't want to talk to him and that had been easier, and he hadn't said it because it was easier to think that it was more selfish than that, but then it was always easier to think that about Cameron-)

David's eyes are fixed on his now and Ed's voice cracks a little as he says "I know you want to do the right thing."

David doesn't say anything. Instead, he just nods, and their hands lie next to each other, a little too close, things that could be said thrumming underneath the air.

 

******************

 

David watches _him_ get up, _his_ eyes darting a little nervously, and he actually curls his fingers into the material of his trousers, because in that moment he hates him. He could hit Miliband, he realises, with a jolt of hatred so violent it shocks even him, and if he let go of his trousers, a part of him thinks he might.

"Mr. Speaker o-on a point of order-" Miliband isn't looking at him. Of course he's not.

"There having been no motion passed by this House tonight-" Miliband is still staring in the direction of Bercow, like he can hide from David. David keeps his gaze fixed on Miliband and he hopes it makes him uncomfortable. He hopes it burns his skin. He hopes, wildly, that it fucking _hurts._

"Can the Prime Minister confirm to the House-" and Miliband's eyes meet his for a moment and then slide away, darting around, and David can picture the look on his own face and is grabbed by a burst of savage glee that Miliband can't look at him again, that it's getting under his skin-

(Because he always knows that he's getting under Miliband's skin, and he always loves it)

(but usually for different reasons)        

"That he will not use the Royal Prerogative -" David can sense the tide of noise welling before it does and sure enough it falls as Miliband tries to stammer out the rest of his sentence. "To order the UK to be part of military-of mili-of military action-"

David feels the smile push at his mouth at the sight of Miliband falling over his own words, the glee jabbing sharp again at the sight of Miliband's eyes darting about frantically.

"-Of military action,  given the will of this House has been expressed tonight-" Miliband fixes his gaze somewhere above David's head. "Before there's been another vote in this House of Commons."

David grinds his teeth together. He can feel himself shaking, a part of him wishing he could throw away the bloody box between them and just- _grab_ Miliband, really _grab_ him-

He's up before Bercow's finished speaking and he doesn't look at Miliband. He can't because if he looks at Miliband right now, with all that bloody hypocrisy and lies and self righteousness then he might forget they're in the House of Commons, on live television and just throw himself at him anyway, just grab him and physically _shake_ a fucking reaction out of him, to what his stupid political manoeuvring has done, has just condemned people to-

He spits it out between each word without saying it and without even looking at Miliband but he hopes it goes in. More than goes in, he hopes it stabs Miliband between the bloody ribs.

"On a point of order, I can give that assurance-" He doesn't look at Miliband, hopes he feels the dismissal in the one gesture he throws out towards him, hopes he feels what he's done, even as he keeps his voice polished, smooth because he knows Miliband will hear it.

(Miliband always hears it)

"Let me say, the House has not voted for either motion tonight-"

_You fucking, spineless backstabbing little shit._

"I strongly believe in the need for a tough response to the use of chemical weapons. But I also believe in respecting the will of this House of Commons-"

_You lied to me; you fucking lied to me and you know it. For all your grandstanding and sanctimony and all your bloody moral values, you know a part of this was about you._

"It is very clear tonight that the-while the House has not passed a motion, it is clear to me that the British Parliament, reflecting the views of the British people-"

_They could have been persuaded; you know they could have been persuaded; sometimes we have to do what's right to protect them, to protect everyone-_

"Does not want to see military action-"

_You did this; you wriggled out of this the same way you wriggled into your job; you gutless, pathetic_

"I _get_ that-"

_I will not forget this. I will never forget you did this._

"And the government will act accordingly."

_You think you're some great moral hero. And I used to-I used to think_

David half-spits the last words at him and sit down, statement finished, completed, for everyone, but him and Miliband

(it's always but him and Miliband)

and their eyes meet for a second and David just stares at him and it's Miliband whose gaze slides away, but he heard the rest. David knows.

(The way he always knows)

_I used to fucking think you were-that there was a part of you-_

_And there isn't. There isn't._

_You fucking worthless, treacherous, spineless coward._

And again, for the rough ache of it, he lets his eyes meet Miliband's and this time he sees the other man flinch and a surge of harsh, bitter joy sours the back of his throat.

It's later when they're told to leave that he knows Miliband is following him. He can sense him following nervously down the corridor but David keeps talking to George and Michael and William and the rest, feeling a stab of cold glee at Miliband having to trail behind them, and it isn't until there's a sudden movement at his side that he turns and sees Miliband standing there, in the middle of all his advisers, staring at him, mouth already moving soundlessly.

David turns away from him without a word, but the rest are already peeling away too, probably thinking that David actually wants to speak to him, and it's then that Miliband says "David-I know you probably don't want to th-speak-"

It's the reappearance of the stupid lisp that makes David whirl round-because it makes Miliband sound so much younger, more innocently nerdy, more downright _goofy_ -and right now all David wants is to bloody well _grab_ him-

"Well done" he almost spits at him. "You're a man of the people, Miliband. Congratulations."

He waits for the eye roll or the sneer but Miliband just stares at him, eyes widening a little. "David-" He closes his eyes. "I didn't-I didn't mean-this isn't about you-"

It is about them. Not all of it, but some of it, and David's suddenly shaking himself. "I know you're good at living with things, Miliband-"

"Oh, for God's-"

David steps up to him then, without thinking, so their shirts are brushing, and he can feel Miliband's chest rising and falling, his own hands clenched into fists at his side. "This was about you." He hisses the words straight into Miliband's face. "This was _all_ about you. Keep telling yourself it was all for everyone else's benefit-"

"Don't you dare-" Miliband's voice cracks on the last word and David lowers his voice, leans even closer so that their noses are almost touching.

"Keep telling yourself you helped people. You just gave Assad exactly what he wants."

Miliband shakes his head and his hand moves suddenly as if he's about to grab David's arm, but it hovers there, a breath away from David's skin. "I did this-" His voice is sharp now, almost twisted out of his mouth. "Because I thought it would help-"

David laughs then. The sound's harsh and ragged and he shakes his head as he leans closer to Miliband. "No, Miliband. No, no, no. This was _all_ about you." He shakes his head and then spits the words out, the ones he knows will hurt Miliband the most. "Maybe you can claw back a bit of respect this way. Give yourself a pat on the back."

Miliband doesn't even say anything at first. Instead, he just stares at David and then says, voice very low, "You're one to talk about this not being about you."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Miliband's so close to him now that David can feel him shaking and he's not sure whether he's trembling from himself or Miliband or them both at once. "You wanted to rush into war because you wanted it to look like we were doing-like you were doing th-something-"

David moves then, so fast that Miliband steps back, their chests rising and falling against one another and David's hand slams into a wall behind him. Miliband's eyes are huge  and they're both trembling now. David's voice is low and the viciousness that bites through the words shocks even him.

"You want me to answer your questions honestly?" He whispers the words almost into Miliband's mouth. "I think you don't give a shit about the British people. I think you're a spineless, fawning little coward." He shakes his head. "I used to-" His voice almost cracks but there's no way he's going to let that happen.

_(IusedtotrustyoumorethanIshouldIusedtothinkyoumightactuallycareIusedto-)_

"What you care about-" He bites the words out. "Is clinging onto the bit of power you still have."

And then he leans in and the next words are like a kiss, whispered against Miliband's cheek. "The best part is-" He breathes it, like the stroke of a stinging nettle. "You actually believe that you have any."

He hears the breath catch in Miliband's throat. He stays exactly where he is, and for a moment, he can almost taste Miliband's skin as he whispers "Keep telling yourself that. Your little story. Keep telling yourself and maybe you'll think it's true."

He can feel Miliband shaking and he pulls back, to look at him before he says it, louder, harsher, where the words he's just whispered were edged with a sweetness that thickens his mouth and curls his tongue.

He looks at him and then bites it out, his words hissed, sharper for that. "Even the fucking Labour party deserves better than you."

He sees the look catch in Miliband's eyes and knows he's struck home. He glares at him for another moment and then pulls back, and that's when Miliband's hand closes around his sleeve.

Miliband stares at his hand as if not sure whether or not it belongs to him. David stares at him, and for a second they're just gazing at each other, and David's acutely aware of his breath harsh in his throat and his heart pounding.

(He's too close, Miliband's too close and he's breathing too hard and David's too near to him, and it's too much, all of this is, and he wants-)

David drags his sleeve free. Ed lets him this time, and lets him step back.

"Don't even speak to me" David spits at him, not caring how childish the words sound, and Ed doesn't even nod, just stares at him, clearly shaking, eyes huge and blinking too rapidly.

David turns and stalks away from him, and he doesn't look back but when he turns the corner Miliband is still standing there. He doesn't care

(he doesn't care, he doesn't)

and it isn't until he reaches his office door, where he knows everyone else will be, that he stops and takes a deep breath and scrubs his hand across his eyes and it takes a few moments of holding up his hand and watching it shake violently for him to realise he's trembling as though he actually had hit Miliband.

(and he hates that he's never been left shaking like this by anyone else, anyone, just Miliband and that makes David hate him even more)

 

******************

 

He has to get up. He doesn't want to and he has to get up and look at him and ask him-

Ed doesn't want to, and it's childish and stupid, but he wants to cling onto the seat, cling on and pretend this isn't happening, because he doesn't want Cameron's eyes to find his, he doesn't want Cameron to look at him like-

Cameron's eyes meet his and it's like a blow to the ribs. Ed lowers his gaze, as he gets up, swallowing hard, the sounds of triumph on either side lapping vaguely at the edges of his vision. It doesn't feel real. He's won this, and it doesn't feel real at all. Instead, he just stares down at the despatch box trying to ignore the horrible, trembly sensation in his legs and arms, as if one push might send all of him crumbling

(and he hates that it's Cameron who does this, makes him feel this pathetic, this fragile, even when he's won, he hates-)

"On a point o-of order, Mr. Speaker-" He hears the stammer and hates it, and knows Cameron will love it and he hates that too.

"There having been no motion passed by this House tonight-" He can feel his gaze darting around and he knows Cameron will be loving it but he can't. For some reason, he just can't look at him. "Can the Prime Minister confirm to the House, that he will not use the Royal Prerogative-"

His eyes find Cameron's briefly and then glance away because what he sees there jolts in his chest and his fingers tighten on his notes because

(it almost frightens him and Cameron's the only person who can do that)

"To order the UK to be a part of military-of mili-of military action-" The noise is swelling around them and Ed can pretend that's the only reason he's falling over his words, so he doesn't have to look across and see Cameron's satisfied smile.

"Of military action-given the will of this House has been expressed tonight-" and he's stupid enough to lift his eyes at the last part, maybe hoping for something, maybe just unable to resist the jab of the masochistic recoil. "Before there has been another vote in this House of Commons."

(And Cameron's eyes meet his and they might as well be a blow because he recoils as keenly as he would from a punch or a kick or a bite-)

(And a part of him thinks all of them might be easier, a thousand times easier than-)

His voice cracks as he says those last words and his eyes drift away from Cameron's, like a child who's been caught in a lie.

(And he's won; he's won and they won't be 2003, they won't have another Iraq, and they won't be Blair-neither of them will be Blair, and Cameron will understand that one day)

(even if he never tells Ed, he will understand it)

Bercow's speaking but Cameron's already moving and for one wild, insane moment, Ed thinks Cameron's going to dive across the despatch box, that he's going to throw his fists or his feet or something into Ed because that's what that look's like

(and somehow, it hurts more than any of that would, leaves his chest aching and breathless-)

Cameron doesn't look away from him for the first word and then he glances away as if Ed's just part of the furniture and Ed tries not to flinch.

"On that point of order, I can give that assurance-let me say that the House has not voted for either motion tonight. I strongly believe in the need for a tough response to the use of chemical weapons-"

The words aren't conciliatory. The tone certainly isn't. Each word feels like a sharp stab in the ribs, and Cameron's eyes aren't looking at him, and right now, Ed's fingers open and close reflexively at his sides, as if he might have to defend himself any second

(and a part of him thinks there isn't any defence he can offer, which is bizarre because he's _right)_

(Cameron will see that)

"But I also believe in respecting the will of this House of Commons-" Cameron's jabbing now, to make a point and he's still not looking at Ed, and Ed's waiting on tenterhooks for the moment their gazes will lock and he's not sure if he ever wants it to come or not-

"It is very clear tonight that while the House has not passed a motion, it is clear to me that the British Parliament-" Cameron's looking at everyone but Ed. "Reflecting the views of the British people-"

And the people are on their side and Cameron has to listen and he must see that, he must see that that's why Ed did this, that it wasn't about them, that it was about doing what was right

(and it wasn't lying, he tried, he was trying so hard to see Cameron's point that it almost killed him)

(like a lot of things about trying and about Cameron)

"Does not want to see British action in Syria-" and even though Cameron isn't looking at him, the words sting across his skin, as though Cameron has reached across and cut open his cheek, as sharply and cleanly as the way he bites out each neat word-"I _get_ that, and the Government will act accordingly."

Ed can hear everything underneath that and it's then, for one moment, as he sinks back into his seat that Cameron's eyes lock with his.

And this time is worse because around him, he can feel the approval, the support that radiates from his MPs

(that he hasn't had for years, it feels like)

and a part of him basks in it, and he hates that, because that can't be part of it, that can't be

(Cameron's words are echoing in his head, and he hates them but he can't rip them out and throw them away)

And Cameron's eyes hold his for a second and the look of hate there slaps Ed in the ribs and gives him such a jolt he flinches, his teeth digging into his lip because he's never hated Cameron, never, and-

(and he can't look away, that's the worst part)

(and this is the closest thing he's ever seen Cameron come to hate)

(and maybe the truth is, it doesn't come any closer)

And then Cameron rips his gaze away, and Ed winces because it feels like a push, as if Cameron has thrown him backwards, away from him

(and he shouldn't care)

(he doesn't know what it says that he does)

It's later, with the buzz of success surrounding him and the pats on the back a little too hard for his liking, that he realises he's going to follow Cameron. He has to follow him, somehow, because he can't leave it like this-he has to explain, make Cameron see that this is what's best in the long run, reassure him that Ed didn't take any pleasure in seeing him beaten, that this isn't what he wanted, that he wanted them to agree-

He manages to shake off the rest by telling them he needs a word with Cameron and they peel away, leaving him to follow Cameron down the corridor, surrounded by a pack of his advisers. Ed hovers behind them, hating the way he's trailing behind Cameron's group, but not daring to step any closer to him.

Cameron doesn't look back once, even when his advisers nudge him and Ed grits his teeth against the sensation that Cameron's enjoying this, perhaps seeing it as some form of poetic justice that after him almost begging Ed for support the last couple of days, Ed is now the one hovering, desperate for a grain of Cameron's time.

And he can't do anything but wait and hope that Cameron will turn around and look. And every second, Cameron doesn't.

It's when they near the end of the corridor that Ed realises Cameron isn't going to stop and for a moment, he's tugged back and forth, frozen mid-step as he hovers awkwardly, wondering if he should cut his losses and retreat to his office or just insist Cameron speaks to him, because the thought of just leaving it hanging-

Maybe it's that thought-that thought or just sheer desperation, frustration rising in his chest at the sheer sight of Cameron _not looking_ at him-that pushes him forward so that he ends up in step with Cameron's lot before he realises it, moving forward until he's standing next to him, hand already out without the slightest idea what it wants to do.

His arm drops as Cameron turns and he opens and closes his mouth without making a sound because now that he's actually in front of him, he has no idea what he wants to say-just that he wants to explain-to unscramble the tangle of words and feelings and wanting in his chest, to unravel it into something he can understand-

Cameron just stares at him, face carefully blank, then turns away without saying anything. There isn't a flicker of recognition. Apart from the moment of hesitation, his eyes might as well have swept over a wall.

He grapples with the words desperately before Cameron can walk away, vaguely aware that the rest around them are stepping back, and he's not sure if he's grateful or not. Maybe it's the desperation that pushes the half-formed words out of his mouth-"David-"

He's used his first name without realising and Cameron freezes, blue eyes flickering to Ed's apparently unconsciously this time. Ed doesn't have time to wonder at his own usage of the name and so he presses on, the words almost falling over each other. "I know you probably don't want to th-speak-" He winces as the lisp climbs back into his voice, mangling his last word with a vengeance.

Cameron's eyes grab his then and it feels like a physical gesture. They're closer-or maybe it just feels as though they're closer-and Cameron's eyes are bright with something that almost jolts Ed a step back.

"Well done." Cameron's mouth is twisted with the words, and Ed swallows hard, the venom making his eyes prickle. "You're a man of the people, Miliband-"The words are edged with contempt. "Congratulations."

Ed wants to throw something back at him, something about _Isn't that supposed to be your job?_ but he knows that's not what Cameron means.

(somehow, he knows that without asking, the way he does all too often)

But he stutters over the words as he tries to form them because even with Cameron looking at him like that, Ed still wants him to know-

"David-" (The name slips out again) "I didn't-I didn't mean-" He swallows, closes his eyes as he tries to bring his thoughts back down into some sort of order. "This isn't about you."

Cameron makes a sound in the back of his throat like a harsh breath but then he's suddenly leaning closer, the words lower now. "I know you're good at living with things, Miliband-"

"Oh, for God's-" Because he can't stop the exclamation, because it's what Cameron brings up all the time, his brother, his brother whispering under every decision he makes

(and this one too, a lot of people will say, and Ed wants to tell them they're wrong)

(but he doesn't know)

(if he can)

-but Cameron's moving, and Ed doesn't move fast enough and suddenly they're an inch apart, Cameron's breath harsh and rapid against his, their chests brushing and the closeness of it stabs into Ed in a way he doesn't know if he hates or not.

Cameron looks at him and hisses the word into his face. "This was about you." The words burn between them. "This was _all_ about you. Keep telling yourself it was for everyone else's benefit-"

And the words curl Ed's hands into fists because he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't, he wouldn't have gambled with-

(he wouldn't have but it was a good part, a part that would let him take a stand, and he couldn't get rid of it, that thought, the idea of)

"Don't you dare-" The words struggle in the air, cracking into pieces with how close they are and with the questions nagging at the back of Ed's mind, the questions of _didIdidIdidI_

Cameron moves then, moves so that their noses are almost together, and Ed feels as if all the words are sharpened, his senses being pulled to every point of the letters, too sharp because they're too close-

"Keep telling yourself you helped people. You just gave Assad exactly what he wants."

The words cut him because Cameron's wrong, he's wrong and he won't see it, and if it weren't for Ed _making_ him see it, the way he always has to-

_(whatifhe'srightwhatifhe'srightwhatifhe'sright)_

He doesn't know why he reaches or what he reaches for but his hand hovers there, grasping for something he isn't sure of, an inch away from Cameron's sleeve. Cameron doesn't pull away, even as the glare from his eyes shakes between them.

"I did this-" The words tremble in the air, but sharper, higher, as he stares at Cameron. "Because I thought it would help-" He blurts the words out and he doesn't know if they're for Cameron or himself.

Cameron laughs and it's horrible. The sound's harsh and torn and Ed wants to cover his ears to shut it out, as Cameron leans closer to him. "No, Miliband." The words are horribly gentle. "No, no, no. This was _all_ about you." The words tickle his skin.

Cameron's mouth twists in a painful smile. "Maybe you can claw back a bit of respect this way." His mouth twitches. "Give yourself a pat on the back."

Ed stays very still, something swelling in his throat at the words. They ache in his chest, under his ribs, and he wants to wrap his arms around himself suddenly, lean back, away from the insinuation that's curled under Cameron's words. He just stares at him, at Cameron who always wants to rush into things, always wants to get involved-

(and the worst part is those are good things sometimes, those can be what they need, and Ed can never quite say it-)

He takes a deep breath and when the words come out, they're so low they almost get lost in his throat. "You're one to talk about this not being about you."

Cameron's eyes narrow. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He's shaking. Or Cameron's shaking. Ed isn't sure anymore. The words crumble out of his mouth, sharper now, quicker. "You wanted to rush into war because you wanted it to look like we were doing something-" The words crack with that way Cameron never _thinks_ about anything-"Like you were doing th-something-"

Cameron moves so fast Ed almost cries out, his hands flying up and for a moment, Ed thinks Cameron's actually going to hit him. There's a slap, harsh and sharp, and Ed's eyes fly closed before he realises there's no pain and the wall is vibrating behind his head. Cameron is leaning over him, his eyes livid, one hand pressed into the wall he's just smacked with all the venom he'd love to throw, by the looks of it, at Ed himself.

"You want me-" The words almost bite with viciousness and Ed instinctively squeezes his eyes shut, as though they might cut him. "To answer your questions honestly?"

Ed's eyes flicker open and Cameron's are inches away. He's almost whispering into Ed's mouth now, as though he's just gently kissing him with poison and there's something that makes Ed feel horribly dizzy at the thought of Cameron tilting his head and-

"I think-" The words are so soft, so horribly soft. "That you don't give a shit about the British people. I think you're a spineless, fawning little coward."

The words seem to slide under Ed's skin very softly, and gently peel it back, the agony stretching out as Cameron seems to reach in, dragging out his blood and his guts, ripping him open, their eyes still holding onto each other.

Ed's shaking. He can't speak because it's not true, it's not true-

But even as he tries to rail against it, he can't, he can't because-

_(isittrueisitrue wereyouhappywereyouwantingtobreakhim wereyouwantingtosaveyourself-)_

And then Cameron's head shakes and the words crack out of his mouth. "I used to-" and Ed catches onto them because there's something worse than hate in Cameron's eyes now, something that aches and that brings that swelling of words back into Ed's throat, those words he can't quite get hold of-

(like he can't grasp this thing that's cracking between them now, this disintegrating of something that Ed isn't sure how to hold but keeps trying to grab onto somehow)

And then Cameron's speaking again. "What you care about-" The words are shaking with venom. "Is clinging onto the bit of power you still have." They sting, and then Cameron leans in so Ed can almost feel his mouth against his cheek.

The words are horribly gentle, a whisper that just kisses his skin, pressing a stain in that's like lipstick. "The best part-" and a little breath, the stain darker, deeper "-You actually believe that you have any."

Ed gropes for words but he can't find any. He can't even push Cameron away. The words are coiling into his brain, unfurling through his blood, gently stroking his thoughts with the doubts that he can never let go of, and that's when Cameron just breathes against his skin, far too close if anyone could see "Keep telling yourself that. Your little story."

There's the hint of a laugh breaking through Cameron's whispers as his last words press themselves onto Ed's skin, branding him, kissing his cheek with a stain that will never rub off, even if it will only ever breathe when he stares in the mirror. "Keep telling yourself and maybe you'll be able to think it's true."

The words lodge in his chest, aching and hurting with the truth, because he can't shake his head or deny it, or say anything, because, because-

(Because Cameron can see, Cameron's always been able to see, he's just never said it before)

Cameron leans back a little and somehow Ed's eyes meet his, even as Cameron hisses out his final words. "Even the fucking Labour party deserves better than you."

Ed's breath catches then because that feels like a punch in the ribs and he knows Cameron knows it, because that's the constant tugging back and forth in his chest, the questions that keep him awake at night, and the words spin around him. He can't catch hold of anything because Cameron knows, Cameron knows that and he said it

(and _he_ knows that Ed doesn't know, he knows about the whispers under every decision he makes and he knows that Ed doesn't know what to do)

(and he knows that those thoughts pestered about the photos that even Balls rolled his eyes over, and the way his sons struggle sometimes when they see the cameras)

(and he knows Ed was happy to give them something they wanted. That this time, even though he thought it was right, he knew it was something the party wanted and he could give it to them)

and Cameron's saying it out loud.

Cameron's shaking and so's Ed and that look is trembling between them now and Ed doesn't know why he reaches out. He doesn't know why he reaches and he doesn't know why his hand closes around David's sleeve.

Cameron doesn't pull away. He doesn't pull away.

(They're too close and Ed just wants to hold onto him and explain but he can't-)

(because Cameron's pulling all of his doubts back out into the open and he can't say them)

(and he just holds on because he doesn't want him to-)

(he doesn't want Cameron to go)

They stare at each other and Ed holds onto him. Cameron's eyes flicker and Ed waits for something to happen, because something has to-

And then Cameron pulls, tugs his arm free. He stares at Ed and Ed stares back, hand still hovering in the air.

"Don't even speak to me." Cameron's stepping back now, a little too fast. Ed can't say anything. He hears a chattering and realises it's his teeth and that he's shaking and his eyes are prickling ominously, words an inch away from breaking in his throat.

Cameron stares at him for another moment, blue eyes trembling a little, and then turns away. Ed can't tear his gaze back as Cameron disappears down the corridor, not looking back, leaving Ed standing there, shaking.

(Ed can't look away and it feels as though Cameron's just dragged his darkest secrets out of his chest and left them there for everyone to see, for Ed to have to see-)

Cameron disappears round the corner and Ed stands there, staring after him. Only after several long moments have passed by, does he sink slowly back against the wall, taking in a long breath that shakes and cracks with a small thready sound.

He raises his hands to his face and watches them shake. He presses his fingers into his hair and his face against his hand and tries to breathe, breaths aching in his lungs. He can't stop the trembling in his arms, the horrible sinking sensation in his stomach as if he's just walked off a building and is only just starting to realise.

He presses his face further into his hands and a small, frantic little sound comes from his throat, but he doesn't listen to it. He just stands there, shaking, surrounded by ghosts of the words lying shattered between them.

(and Cameron's eyes, Cameron's eyes and those words, twisted and harsh and broken, and his hand, lingering on Cameron's arm for that moment, and Cameron letting him)

 

******************

 

It's after (with less talking than he'd expected and pats on the back and planes in an hour) that he retreats to his study. He stares out of the window and waits, feeling the shivers tremble through his limbs, the way they often do after a major victory, but it's harder to calm them this time. He waits and too much of him doesn't wonder what he's waiting for.

When the knock on the door comes, David doesn't turn round. "Yes?" and he hears the door open, hears and waits by the window.

"Prime Minister?" comes the voice and David closes his eyes as relief jolts through him, savouring it for a moment before he turns.

Miliband is standing beside his desk, watching him. "Congratulations" he says quietly and David smiles, a smile he knows without looking is wan and tired. "Not calling me a war-mongerer, Miliband?"

The corners of Miliband's mouth twitch. "Not calling me a terrorist-sympathiser, Cameron?"

David smiles then, a real smile, and it's then that Miliband moves round the desk, as David turns back to the window. He can feel Miliband watching him and the moments stretch out between them

(David likes it too much, this silence between them, this silence that has always seemed to belong to just the two of them)

(Last time, he was miserable as he told himself he was happy and he told himself it was because Miliband couldn't be trusted and not because what he said had struck home for either one of them)

(and not because)

(he missed him)

"You think I should have apologized" David says, without turning and Miliband's voice is low. "You know I do."

David nods, smiles sadly. "Can and should, Miliband."

"I don't accept that. That-there always has to be a difference."

(And the words are so Milibandy, and the tone is so real that David wants to laugh and at the same time do something completely insane, something bizarre-)

_(likehughimlikehughhimlikehughim)_

(because he can barely remember what it was like to sound like that or if he ever sounded like that)

"I know." The words come out softer than he expects and maybe that's the reason for the stillness that falls between them and for Miliband's footsteps moving up behind him so that they're gazing out of the window together.

"When does it start?" Miliband's voice is almost a whisper now.

David shifts, moves an inch closer. "An hour."

"Good God."

"Indeed."

Miliband looks at him then, his face bathed in the glow of a light from outside, and David says "Honestly. Do you think that of me?"

"What of you?"

David swallows. "That this is about me wanting to do something."

Miliband is still watching him. It's when he says quietly "No" that David meets his eyes.

Miliband's gaze is glittering dark in the light through the glass. "I think you're trying to do the right thing" he says and those words between them in the dark do something, make something crack or cave or settle in David's chest, just under his heart.

"Thank you" he says and the words come out quiet and soft. His and Miliband's eyes meet in the dark and hold each other for a few moments.

"They told me about your statement" he says quietly. "Why you voted against."

He feels rather than sees Miliband go very still. "Yes."

David looks at him. "I thought it was honourable" he says quietly. "Even if I don't agree with it."

Miliband's mouth twitches. "Thank you."

(Last time, he didn't think it was honourable-last time, he thought it wasn't and maybe that was the worst part. He hadn't known until then how much he counted on not hating Miliband, how much-)

They look at each other, hissed ghosts of words whispering between them and maybe it's the ghosts or the day or the sky, that sky sprawled out above them that in an hour will be the canvas for war and blood and fire to be scrawled many miles away that makes David say "You don't think this time that I have some ulterior motive of just wanting to throw us into battle?"

He doesn't look at Miliband. Instead, he takes in that sky, the same peaceful night sky he's just ordered planes to shatter into pieces, and Miliband's voice is a whisper he holds onto in the promise of what's to come. "No."

David looks at him as he asks the question. "Did you last time?"

Miliband doesn't look away. "Yes. No and yes."

 

******************

 

He knew he was going to come up here before they'd voted and he knew that he'd come whatever the result was. He'd stepped into the room and when he saw Cameron standing by the window, his hand had opened and closed on the door frame for a moment, something jolting in his chest, as he battled with the odd urge pushing him to go forward, to lay a hand on the other man's shoulder, to say something.

When he'd said "Prime Minister?" and Cameron had turned round, it had been a weird relief spreading through his ribs and his chest and it had been almost too easy to walk round the desk to stand next to him. It prickles in his mind still that this place could have been his, that he could have been returning to this place tomorrow to undertake business, business that would have, in his leadership, had nothing to do with planes or war or violence. Instead, tomorrow, he'll have a talk in a school with Justine, and his stomach turns over at the thought, his mind already focusing on the plane to France he'll take afterwards, the thought that he'll cling onto during the talk tomorrow where he'll stand with his wife and smile and not act as though his head aches with struggling to hold the world together.

He glances down at the bareness of his left hand and folds his fingers tightly shut.

And now, they're standing here, looking up at the sky and he says it carefully, slowly, the truth-"Yes. No and yes."

Cameron doesn't look away from him. Instead, his blue eyes just hold Ed's through the dark, a colour he can still pick out in the faint glow of the lights. He doesn't move away and so Ed moves closer, closer still so their elbows brush.

(It sends a shock of electricity through him and it occurs to him then that he hasn't really touched Cameron all day, even with talking and lunch and watching, and now they're touching, just like a breath)

Cameron's still looking at him and the words come slowly because Ed has to tell him. "I think-" His voice is lower now. "I think you wanted it to be the right thing."

Cameron doesn't say anything, just looks at him and Ed says "What do you think?"

"About what?" Cameron's eyes hold his. "This time or last time?"

"Both."

Cameron moves then, and for a moment Ed feels a small flicker of panic, at the thought that Cameron is pulling away but then he's moving closer and now their arms are pressed against each other. Ed swallows hard, his thoughts scattering under being dragged to the heat prickling up and down his arm where it's against Cameron's, and he can see something like a question caught in Cameron's eyes, and neither of them are pulling away.

(Last time, all of the questions he asked felt empty, every Wednesday lunchtime, watching Cameron avoid his eyes and throw out the answers without looking at him and even with his own party cheering for a while, and with people telling him he'd done the right thing, each time Cameron looked away, Ed felt the humiliation sting, as if Cameron had discarded him as easily as throwing away a wrapper.)

(and each time his phone vibrated, he thought it might be Cameron and each time they caught each other's gaze across the halls, he hoped this might be the time it held and he told himself the constant aching sensation in his ribs was just stress, as though stress made you feel as if you were constantly reaching for something that was constantly turning away)

"This time?" Cameron takes him in for a moment, his eyes wider now, as if Ed could climb inside them. "I think you're doing what you think is right."

******

David says it quietly, their arms pressed together, and he thinks for a moment he can feel the heat of Miliband's skin through both their sleeves. "I think you're doing what you think is right."

Miliband quirks an eyebrow. "That doesn't answer last time, Cameron."

David turns then, turns so they're standing too close to one another, facing each other and he says the words very quietly. "Partly doing the right thing."

Miliband just looks at him. "And partly not?"

David looks him straight in the eye and the words vibrate in the air between them. "Partly not." He holds out a hand. "You can tell me I'm a war-mongering, Bullingdon-joining, viciously-lying bastard now, if you like."

Miliband tilts his head to the side. "I'll have to decline, Cameron, though thanks for the kind offer." But then his voice drops a little lower and he says "I wouldn't like to do that, no."

"Well." David's voice is a little strangled. "Well. Well. That's rather-generous of you."

Miliband's voice is far lower this time. "Not really. More-trying not to keep telling a story."

David swallows. "I said that to you." It's not a question.

Miliband doesn't nod, just returns his gaze. "I hated hearing it."

David realises then and only then that he's shaking. His hands are trembling and he hadn't even realised.

"I hated saying it" and it isn't until the words are coming out of his mouth that he realises they're true.

(He told himself it was tiredness that made him start talking to Miliband again, and knew it was a lot more)

(The need to call him to talk about everything that was business and let everything that wasn't slip between the cracks for both of them to catch onto)

(the ache of not meeting his eyes, of not having Miliband's sharp whispers to hang onto at ceremonies and awards and events, of not being able to watch that grin that always makes Miliband look stupidly young and stupidly geeky at once, and yet David-)

(still)

(likes)

(watching it)

(And it nagged at him, and still does. The way Miliband rolls his eyes and constantly throws out another argument at him and sometimes, just sometimes, lowers his voice and asks David to please, please _listen)_

"I know." Miliband's so close that David can feel him breathing and that seems the strangest thing in the world-that he's near enough to hear Miliband doing this, this thing that everyone does that keeps them alive, but he can _hear_ Miliband, _hear_ his breathing, and David doesn't know why he's dwelling on it.

(and it had been the look on Ed's face, sitting alone at a table, staring at it like he had no idea what to do with himself)

(that had made him do it, after months of not-speaking and not-looking and almost but not quite not-thinking)

"But I-"

"What?"

(And when David had sat down next to him, that smile had caught there.)

Miliband's eyes are big and dark and then his hand closes around David's sleeve. "I didn't want you to be right."

David swallows. "I might not have been" he says quietly and it's only Miliband he would admit this to.

"I didn't mean about going in."

(Miliband just blinked when David sat down and for a long moment they'd looked at each other and David had thought they were going to talk about it)

(But then Miliband had just said "Rare to see the Prime Minister descending to the commoners' level" and David had said "Miliband, please don't try to label yourself as common")

"I meant about what you said."

*******

Ed's leaning too close to Cameron and he should stop but Cameron doesn't move away and neither does Ed.

"I wasn't-" He swallows hard, the words clogging together for a moment before he meets Cameron's eyes. "It wasn't-not people's lives. Not that." Because it wasn't and Cameron has to believe that, he has to, because Cameron has to know that about him.

(If anyone would know that, it would be Cameron.)

"But-" Ed squeezes his eyes shut because Cameron's just looking at him so gently that it aches. "I-it wasn't. I didn't want another Iraq, Cameron."

Cameron's voice is soft. "I know."

"No-" He shakes his head because Cameron doesn't know and he has to know this part, he has to-

(the day Cameron came and sat down next to him, Ed thought he was dreaming or it was a trick or a ruse or that Cameron was about to throw another bullet of blame at him. But Cameron just smiled and Ed hung onto it because)

(he'd)

(missed it)

"No-not just that. I didn't want to-" He takes in a deep, shuddering breath. "I didn't want to do that to people. But maybe-I just-" He opens his eyes, lifts them to Cameron's. "I didn't want _you_ to do that to people."

(They've never talked about it. Sometimes, he thinks they're going to and so does Cameron but they don't, every time.)

"I didn't want you to end up with another Iraq."

The words lie there between them, and Ed watches Cameron's eyes widen as he takes them in.

*******

"I didn't want you to end up with another Iraq."

Miliband's staring at him and David knows then that he's just dragged it out into the open. He's just said it, grabbed onto this thing that was trembling between them.

(Maybe they both have.)

(and David was never sure if he wanted to talk about it or not)

"So you tried to argue me out of it." He hears his voice, as if it's coming from a great distance. "And then you opposed it."

Miliband nods. David's suddenly very aware of each breath from both of them, in and out. "Because that's what you always did."

Miliband nods. "That was my job, Cameron."

David leans forward, so that their heads almost touch. "I appreciated it" he says

(and he did. More than he ever-)

Miliband's eyes are searching his for something and David knows they're going to find it so he opens his mouth and says "I didn't want it to be you, either."

 *******

"I didn't want it to be you, either."

Ed closes his eyes, because he's never said it to Cameron before. Because it was his job to oppose him, it was his job to argue with him, his job to tell Cameron when he was wrong-

(And everyone would have said he enjoyed it too much)

(but they wouldn't have known why and neither would Ed, or he wouldn't have let himself know)

"That-that was who you-that you'll have done that." Cameron's closer to him now and his hand moves as if he might take hold of Ed's arm but stops himself at the last moment. "What I said. Last time." He bites his lip. "I didn't want that to be who you-who you were."

Ed swallows, suddenly very, very aware of his heartbeat. "Neither did I." He almost doesn't recognize his own voice.

Cameron takes a deep breath. "You know we tried to find another solution, don't you?"

Ed nods. "And you know I tried to get behind this."

"I know." Cameron's voice is very soft.

Ed takes a deep breath. "You don't have to be disappointed you won, you know."

Cameron's voice has shrunk now. "I don't think it's about winning, Miliband." The name sounds softer now, almost like an endearment. "I just sent people to war." His voice cracks on the last word and Ed moves without thinking about it, his hands brushing Cameron's sleeves.

His own voice is quiet, finding its' way through the words. "David." The name tastes unfamiliar in his mouth and he wants to feel it there again. "You wouldn't have done it if you didn't think it was right."

David looks at him and says "I didn't think it was. Last time. I didn't think you were just doing it for yourself." He swallows. "Because-I know you want to be-I know you wanted to do something that was right."

"I wanted-" Ed doesn't know why he's telling him, except that maybe Cameron already knows. Maybe Cameron knows, the same way that Ed knew Cameron wanted to throw his lot in with Obama, that he wasn't thinking because he wanted to get involved, wanted to make some defence. The way they often know these things about each other, in a way you only learn from arguing with someone for five years

(and that's what Ed tells himself.)

But it's Cameron and so he says it. "I wanted-I didn't think it was right, last time" and that's true, he didn't and he still doesn't, but the triumph of that was smothered under the emptiness and the anger and the constant questions, the questions that never stopped-"But-"

He hates saying it. He's never said it to anyone.

(But he says it to Cameron.)

"I wanted to be right" he says, the words hovering between them. "I wanted to get something right."

"And you wanted me to be wrong."

Ed can only open and close his mouth. "I didn't want-"

(he's not sure. Even now, he's not sure or he doesn't like to think about it, and maybe he can convince himself that that's the same thing)

"You know." Cameron's voice almost tickles his skin. "I didn't want to send people to war. I don't want that. That's not my-"

"I know" because Ed never thought that and-"I didn't mean that. If I said it. I never meant it."

"I know you didn't mean that-" and Ed doesn't miss the slight emphasis on the last word. "But-I wanted to help."

"I know."

"I needed to do-I had to-"

Ed understands and he doesn't know if he wants to or not.

Cameron's eyes meet his and he says quietly "So did you, Miliband."

Ed swallows because there's nothing he can say to that.

(Cameron knows him well, after all.)

"The thing is-" He has to say it, just because it's been so long and the planes will be in the sky in an hour and he and Cameron are alone in Cameron's study and maybe a part of him's wanted to say it.

"I wanted-I didn't know. I mean, I know now that I was right-but then I didn't. I thought-I thought I was, but-" He can feel his voice climbing. "I didn't want anyone to die, Cameron."

"I know."

"I didn't want-but I wanted to do something right. And it was right in retrospect-but at the time-" His voice breaks because maybe at the time the right thing was the wrong thing. He might have been right in the long run but a part of him nags at the idea that maybe that doesn't make him right.

(Maybe sometimes, the right thing to do is be wrong)

(but Ed couldn't afford to be wrong, and so he got it right)

(and he still doesn't know if that was the right thing or not)

He can't say it all, not now, so he just stares at Cameron and hopes that somehow he'll understand it, even in a way that Ed can't.

Cameron just stares at him and then very slowly, his hand moves, until it's lying on Ed's arm. "I didn't want that to be you" he says, those clipped, polished tones so quiet now Ed has to strain to hear them. "I didn't want it to be-that you were willing to do all that-just so it could look like you did something right."

Ed's voice is tighter now. "I didn't think it was." He clears his throat. "That that was me."

Cameron's hand is warm and soothing, rubbing in slow circles that are making the heat rise in Ed's cheeks. He can hear his own heartbeat now, and he can't look away from Cameron. "I think-" Cameron's voice is very low. "That a lot of it isn't you."

He knows it's not Ed. He always knew, really, and that was why he hated it. Because if this wasn't Ed, why was he doing it, why was he letting himself-

(Because Ed was always the one there, telling him what was wrong, what was unfair, nagging at him over and over, and he hadn't realised how much he needed-)

(Because he didn't want to think Ed could be like that, because part of him was being that person who didn't always think there was a difference between can and should, and he didn't want to think Ed could be-)

Ed's voice is low, with the hint of a smile. "So you're not going to call me a worthless, fawning coward, who's letting down the country?"

David's own words sting.

"I never apologized to you, did I" he says and it's not really a question.

Ed's mouth quirks. "Nor did I."

"What did you have to apologize for?" David's hand closes around his wrist then and his thumb brushes Ed's hand, too warm and too close.

It's like they're skating on the edge of something now, the same way it bit through the phone calls last time, the way Ed's hand lingered on his sleeve

(like he was about to touch, and David always wondered what would have happened if he'd stayed)

Ed's eyes meet his and that's when his hand brushes David's. "For doing the right thing" he says and David can feel that they could do something, that something is happening and that he's not stopping it, he's letting it happen, letting it go on.

"Why do you need to apologize for that?"

Ed's mouth twitches again. "For the wrong reason" he breathes and David has the time to think, dazedly, that that could correspond to a lot of Ed's decisions and then he thinks maybe Ed isn't the only one.

"You hated me" Ed says quietly and David meets his eyes. "For a while, yes."

Ed nods, and then says very softly "I tried to hate you."

David knows he shouldn't be asking, when there's planes and war and it's him and Miliband but he says it. "Is it selfish that I'm happy you couldn't?"

Miliband's smirk twitches back into view.

(And David's missed that and he only realises how much now)

"Exceedingly."

David laughs. The sound breaks from his throat, a little wild, at this, what he knows with Miliband, and at the same time, everything he doesn't know.

Their hands are touching. David can feel every breath. He doesn't want Ed to go.

"An hour" he says quietly, and Ed turns to look out of the window. "It's-it's strange to think about-"

Ed's eyes swing sharply to his own and then he watches as Ed presses his lips together, seeming to come to a decision.

And then his hand touches David's shoulder and they're closer.

"I know" Ed says, when even David doesn't know. "But-"

"But what?" David laughs again, this time without much humour. "You don't want this at all."

"You're right." Ed's voice is low. "But I want you to-"

"What?"

Ed takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I want you to do the right thing."

"But you did the right thing."

Ed clears his throat then. "I want you to be able to be proud you did the right thing."

David swallows. "That's what I wanted."

Ed's eyebrow arches. "How surprising."

David steps closer then. "I meant for you."

There's a long silence and that's when Ed says "You know it's going to be difficult."

"Of course."

"But-" Ed's hand tightens for a moment and that's when David realises Ed's still holding his shoulder. "I think this time-you can be."

"Proud of doing the right thing?"

"For the right reason."

David swallows. "You know-" He tries for a laugh but it comes out a little strangled. "I actually rather miss you opposing me."

Ed quirks an eyebrow. "You want me to argue with you more, Cameron?"

"Well, I could do with some worthy arguments from a Leader of the Opposition."

The laugh breaks from Ed's mouth before he can stop it and David grins as Ed bites his lip, clearly annoyed with himself. But he doesn't let go of David's shoulder and David says "I do miss it, you know."

Ed doesn't say anything for a few moments and David's gaze drifts to the sky again, and he wonders how long there is now until the planes set off, until the bombs begin to fall, the explosions echoing, ringing with the sound of despair for everyone who searched for another solution.

(And David did. He tried, and he wanted, but this is the only way.)

(Whatever anyone else says, he believes that)

And then Ed says "I miss it too." His smile twitches back into view. "God knows how many mistakes you'll make without me to hold you to account."

David's voice is very low. "God knows."

(God knows because Miliband's sometimes the only one he can listen to, because there's no way he can listen to Corbyn, when the man's own MPs don't listen, and Miliband was supposed to argue with him, supposed to oppose him, and that let him listen-)

(God knows because he liked opposing Cameron, liked correcting him and straightening him out and doing everything he was supposed to do, because that was his job, to stop Cameron from making mistakes, and when they agreed on something, it was something he grabbed onto because it was the one time when both of them could be smiling at the same thing-)

"How will you be?" Ed asks quietly because his hand's still on Cameron's shoulder and he doesn't know how long it's been there now. "Now?"

David shrugs a little under his hand. "Fine, I suppose. Just-" He searches Ed's eyes out suddenly, worriedly. "You know I didn't want to do this, don't you?"

Ed looks back at him and says, honestly, "Yes."

"What about you?" David says and something about that makes Ed close his eyes for a moment because it's harder to say "I'll be fine" than he thought it would be.

David's eyes hover on his left hand quietly for a few moments and then he says "You're not wearing your wedding ring." It's gentle, a quiet observation, but Ed still snatches his hands back, folds his fingers over.

He'll put it back on tomorrow-he'll have to, have to for their talk, for smiling, for laughing-but he'll keep it on, he'll try to keep it on for the children, for everything he's been working for.

(Because they have to pretend, they have to keep going, at least for a few more weeks because they can't be the people who tell their children news like that at Christmas, then they'll be the hated movie-villain parents who the children have to plot against and triumph over in the end, the parents songs are written about and whose children end up slumped in a leather chair across from someone who tucks a pen behind their ear and looks far too concerned, finding stories in ink blots and the words from their own mouths becoming ink that draws and traces their earliest memories)

(Because Ed's good at pretending and it's only when there should be no need for it that he realises how good he is)

"Ed-" His name catches in David's throat and his hand grips Ed's sleeve as Ed takes a step back. "Don't-"

"Don't what?"

David swallows and meets his eyes slowly. "Don't go." His eyes dart away for a moment, and then he takes a deep breath, lifts his gaze to Ed's and says "Just...stay for a little while." His voice is smaller as he says "Please?"

There are too many excuses Ed could give to leave but he meets David's eyes and just says, very quietly, "All right."

They stand quietly, looking out of the window, and it's a few minutes before David says quietly "Thank you."

"It's not a problem."

"Not just for staying." David looks at him and Ed looks back, something trembling in the air between them now, and he's too aware that it's just the two of them.

But he says very quietly to David "I wanted to" and they just stand there, together, by the window, with what's been agreed and disagreed and everything that's been left unsaid lying there between them, breathing with them and between them.

**

(David had stood outside his office for a few moments and he could have gone back, he could have said something, anything, the last words between them nagging at the rawness in his chest-)

(but he'd stood there and stood there and eventually, he'd pushed open the door and gone in, holding onto the aching emptiness in the pit of his ribs)

(Ed could have followed him, could have walked up to his office and demanded to say one thing to him, anything, even as he leaned against the wall, hands pressing flat against the panels as he tried to get his bearings-)

(But he'd stood there, still trembling, a sickness gripping at his stomach and eventually, he'd turned around and walked away, feeling the floor carefully with his feet, something hot and sharp and wet prickling at his eyes)

Now, they're standing at the window, looking out at the sky together, at the country they've just agreed and disagreed to send into another battle and David can feel their arms brushing.

He moves his hand slightly, breath catching, and his fingers just touch Miliband's, like a feather or a dream.

He's staring out at the streets and the dark and the people, all the people who they can't see right now, but who have just been sent into a battle they might not even understand when he feels Cameron's hand brush his.

He could move away. He could. But he doesn't.

He stays still, and then he moves the tiniest inch, a breath of movement closer to Cameron, so their hands are touching.

David's fingers touch Ed's, slowly finding their way in, and then just brush his palm.

Ed lets his own dance across David's knuckles.

They don't look at each other because that might break it.

Instead, David doesn't look at him but he can feel him, can feel Ed's breath catch as David's fingers flutter for a moment and then bump into Ed's and then Ed's wrap too, bringing their hands into each other.

Ed can't look at him but David's fingers flicker around his like a memory he's trying to hold onto and in that last moment when Ed can pull away, he chooses not to, and he'll always know that he chose not to, just like he still knows what he chose two years ago. And then his fingers fold back around David's.

They don't look at each other. They just look out of the window at the night sky, and both of them think for a moment how long it would take to read all their decisions in that sky, all the arguments and conversations and smiles and silences that have led them to standing here, by a window, with planes preparing to fly away.

"I mean it" David says and he could be talking about a lot of things, they both know.

They look at each other and Ed says quietly "So do I."

They don't talk out loud then. They stand there, waiting for the decision they've just made to crash down before them and around them and around everyone, perhaps. But they don't say anything out loud, holding each other in the dark, under the night sky that's about to be cut to pieces somewhere miles away, even as the stars just take their first breaths, just begin to peek through the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment if you liked this! :)


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